I started this blog nearly 6.5 years ago just after we arrived in the UK. I found it therapeutic to share the details of our move on a platform where I not only had the last word, I had the first word and every word in between. And I rather liked that. Also I felt that getting it all down was my way of detangling everything. You know how it's best to have all the Christmas tree lights strewn out on the floor before you can even start with the bitch-blerry job of unravelling the little feckers? Well, writing is my version of laying the lights out before I can make sense of it all. Imbued with a sense of cautious and hopeful optimism that I won't step on the delicate (yet deceptively lethal) bulbs, crush them to pieces and bleed all over the place. But with the pragmatic belief that I'll probably shatter every last one and have to go to A&E for stitches. And then buy a new set of cocking Christmas lights like I should’ve done in the first place.
Truth is that when I started this blog I was rather lonely. Rather lost. Rather terrified. And this white page with its heartbeat cursor became my happy place. A place where I'd hide behind a wide range of humour. From dry and deadpan to self-deprecating, crude and crass to deflect my massive insecurities about myself and the permanent move that we'd made away from a home that I loved and I life that I loved more. I do a lot of life with humour. Some healthy. Some not so much. It's the ultimate defence mechanism. "Ha ha, let's all laugh while I slowly fall apart. And you'll never know, because I'm smiling and joking all the way down." It's a classic Sally-survival tactic. Not so classic though. And it's less survival and more sad. But not uncommon. And certainly not unique to me. Now, as I'm less in the emo trenches, my blog is has become a one-stop shop for all my small-minded drivel. It's a lot less funny. But that's probably healthier.
My husband recently presented me with a hardcopy version of this blog. It's a weighty tome. With some serious thud factor. Of course it is. It's filled with all the rants, revelations and affirmations of a lass trying her best to make a life in Britain. That would never be a skinny offering. It's rather tough to look back at those first pages when I know that I was struggling and how desperately I wanted to portray otherwise. Facebook was also a willing accomplice in that endeavour. There is a lot of laughter though. Genuinely funny moments that I'll remember forever. Posting my passport and the tears I shed to retrieve it, my son plopping a poo onto the street, having the peanuts I gave him for lunch wrapped up like kryptonite, locking myself outside of the house and my 15-month-old daughter inside, catching my kids’ vomit in each hand on a car ride from Valencia to Madrid, peeing on the side of a highway, reversing into a parked car and my children shrieking with delight "again, again mummy", being frogmarched by security out of a building after suspected identity fraud. There have been the best of times. And the worst of times. And through it all, this blog has been an invaluable tool in coping with the massive change and the trauma of immigration separation anxiety, which I just made up but is totally a real thing.
I've gone on a lot about how tough it is to make a life in a new country. Because it is. But human beings are an incredible species. We're made to adapt or die. And that we do. Adapt. And, well we die too. But that's hopefully much later. Speaking of hope, a few weeks ago we were invited to a ceremony to take an oath of allegiance to the Queen and accept the British citizenship status that we were finally granted. We have maintained our South African citizenship and so are now a family of dual nationals. It was an emotional moment as the registrar handed us our naturalisation certificates. She spoke of the difficulty in settling into a new country, especially with a young family. To leave a familiar homeland and build a new life. She said that Britain strives to make us feel at home and is proud to welcome us. A part of me wishes that this lovely sentiment was shared when we first arrived on this island, when we really needed to hear those words. But it was good to hear it at all. The first heartfelt human engagement in this whole process. And what a process. Every visa application, every bureaucratic stamp, every trip to an embassy, every biometric test, every proof of marriage, birth, life, every cost (monetary and otherwise) has led us to this point where we're finally able to reside in a place without restrictions. And it's a great place to be. Metaphorically and otherwise.
My best friend said it best. As she's wont to do. She said "Your newly-granted citizenship status is not to be taken lightly. You have made tremendous sacrifices and overcome huge challenges to change the course of your family's path, forever." And she's right. More and more I realise that the one true and lasting privilege is freedom of choice. The freedom to choose. Where to live. Where to work. Where to travel. British nationality status allows us to offer this to our children more than we otherwise could. We've done a lot of really stupid things in our 20 years together. But we both feel that this isn't one of them.
Six and half years ago, I truly was a million miles from normal. So much so that I wrote about it. In great detail. Often. I felt like an alien in a foreign land. Today I am no longer an alien. I am a citizen of a land and a life that is less foreign, in a place I now call home. In 1820 my intrepid British ancestors set sail from England to South Africa in pursuit of new opportunities in a foreign land. This epic move changed the course of our family's destiny for generations. 199 years later, we've come full circle and it's our turn to take bold new steps in a new country. And just think - future generations of Cook/Whittal progeny - you've got this blog to look back on and see where it all began. Or the hardcover version to to use as a doorstop. It’s your choice.
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| Oh happy day. |
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| Blogging it like it is since 2013. |
