Living outside of America

It's strange to be from a place and not feel as though I belong to it or it to me. As a child growing up in Los Angeles, I was taken on field trips to the Natural History Museum, art museums, Griffith Park, Universal Studios etc....but as an adult, investigating the sprawl that is LA, I feel distinctly separate from it and its people. Perhaps this is because my parents were not born or raised in southern California; their roots and history extended elsewhere. Growing up, I felt like I had two other appendages of 'home', the country life of small-town Ohio, and the urban jungle of Taipei, my parents' childhood homes, respectively.

Now that I've moved across the world to a small city in southern Spain, where the people seem to ooze pride in its history, landmarks, and cultural facets, my curiosity has shifted back to my origins, albeit a distilled shifting back. I am interested in the history of the city where I was born.

When Spanish strangers ask, I find myself at a loss to describe my city, "my people", my customs, because for some unknown reason, this knowledge has faded from me in the last 25 months. The longer I am away, the more that is put into question my former beliefs, attitudes, and attachments and the less I am able to provide a holistic or satisfying response. And strangely (or maybe not-so-strangely at this point), I feel ashamed - shame as a reaction to the bafflement of U.S. gun policy, exorbitant rates of crime and violence, geographical/historical/political ignorance of most countries outside the 50 states, the overwhelming prison population, the persistent existence of the death penalty. Although I was initially briefed and as trite as it may be, I am and continue to be an unwilling ambassador of my country, expected to provide a logical explanation to the prevalent questions. Why is race such a big deal? Why are Americans so SENSITIVE? Are you scared to walk around the streets in the United States, with all the people who own guns? Do you miss hamburgers?

Shortly after moving to Spain, I set my sights on becoming a certified English language teacher, mostly because the option was within reach and working as a web designer who couldn't communicate fluently in Spanish was not a viable route. Fast forward 2 years later, and I am working at a language academy, as well as local university, and never would I have imagined that I'd be as fulfilled as I am with my job. The salary is very little compared to what my college peers will soon be earning, but distance has lessened the personal importance of the accumulation of wealth.

Work to live or live to work?

There are a few memories that come to mind when reflecting upon my past work experiences. The first was during a summer in high school, when I was employed as a hostess at The Cheesecake Factory, during which the manager would routinely pass by the hostess podium and say, "smile!" to the grim-faced staff. Another was working as a waitress in Berkeley, in which a pleasant and cheerful attitude was not only encouraged, but enforced via both the social pressure put on by the managers and the ubiquitous tipping system.

 By contrast, here in Spain, food-service staff would not generally be described as "cheery", "chipper", or "jolly". Servers take their time, do not typically apologize for mistakes, and the tip is obligatorily included in the bill. In hindsight, the pressure of feigning jubilance, normalized totally and completely in my native culture, were in actuality entirely abnormal, but in the opposite extreme.

In an article published today on salon.com, Bruce E. Levine provides some telling information. He says,

"In 2011, the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) reported that antidepressant use in the United States has increased nearly 400% in the last two decades, making antidepressants the most frequently used class of medications by Americans ages 18-44 years."

He proposes a possible explanation:

"Life may or may not suck any more than it did a generation ago, but our belief in “progress” has increased expectations that life should be more satisfying, resulting in mass disappointment. For many of us, society has become increasingly alienating, isolating and insane, and earning a buck means more degrees, compliance, ass-kissing, shit-eating, and inauthenticity. So, we want to rebel. However, many of us feel hopeless about the possibility of either our own escape from societal oppression or that political activism can create societal change. So, many of us, especially young Americans, rebel by what is commonly called mental illness."

That there has been a four-fold increase in clinically-diagnosed depression in the United States since 1991 is horrifying. Contrary to common belief, what is called into question are not so much the factors and potential causes of this increase in depression, but a shift in the definition of what sadness, sorrow, or melancholy would signify. One woman's complacency is another woman's contentedness and no more true when comparing one culture's conception of depression to another's. In my current surrounding culture, one's identity, and sense of worth, is not as intricately entwined with earning power, monetary possession, or property ownership. The importance of family and community still acts as a firm support network, a barometer of one's position in society, and so far, has not yet been usurped by the cultural importation of hardly arguably the most dominant nation in the world.

Moving across the world and implanting myself in another country has not been easy, particularly due to the fact that the motivation was not necessarily inspired by the Spanish culture itself. It is both interesting and difficult to be different and loneliness has become an underlying presence, tolerated but usually kept at bay. I want to say that I have changed, that I know myself better, or that I no longer suffer from fears and anxieties that used to keep me up at night, yearning for the inner peace that had escaped yet again. But, I remain myself. I used to be convinced that I was in need of outside advice, that there was something inherently "wrong" with my psyche, that my childhood would forever haunt me if the issues were not addressed, re-experienced, and then resolved with a professional, trained in such delicate matters.

 Much like the recent shift in the U.S. perception of what constitutes depression, so too has my perception of anxiety shifted. Bouts of melancholia are no longer moments of profound realization into the meaning of life, but temporary spells that require withdrawal, much like recovering from a cold or flu. And this attitude is majoritarily extended, so that it is not such a rarity to withdraw, but an understandable part of being alive. And why shouldn't it be so?