Coming to America

I grew up in post-war Britain without a mother. My Grandma and Aunt looked after me, well I might add. Then my aunt bought me a book about the Wild West. I was entranced by the stories of Belle Starr, Kit Carson, Geronimo, Sitting Bull, and Crazy Horse, and she provided me with the props to enact my fantasy -- a leather vest with the name "Buffalo Bill" pinned out on the back with brass paper fasteners, and a six-gun.

Whenever possible I used to run up to the park which had once  been a private garden attached to a big house and which possessed a wealth of woods and hideaways and, as part of it was on a hill, a waterfall, rocks and a nearby trail. For a boy it was ideal ambush territory and I dry-gulched many an unsuspecting traveler there. At night, I lay in bed reading my book and was particularly taken by the stories of the Indians. Even though I didn't understand the suffering caused by Manifest Destiny, I was already hooked on the dream of America.

The first American I met during that period of my life was Uncle John who was visiting from Detroit. He sounded really weird..."Waah, Waah, Waah, Jaaahn," he said to me with his thumbs stuck in his red suspenders. I desperately hoped he wasn't representative.

The first real Americans I met were black. I was about eight and at my local town show, where there was an American marching band. They were slick and had coins in their pockets, the sound of which emphasized their group cohesion. During a break, I spoke to one of them. He towered over me, but had a kind voice. "What are your helmets made of?" I asked...and he replied "Hand polished aluminum, boy." I had known it as aluminium, but was more than impressed and ignorant too of the sad state of discrimination he probably had to endure.

I went to a Baptist church about that time. My father had married my Sunday school teacher and I reluctantly almost lived at church. I remember once we had a black preacher visit from the States and he told his story how he found the Lord and gave up drugs. It was fiery and totally out of the experience of many of the old ladies whose sins extended to having a sip of sherry at weekends. It was a riot. His ernest sermon was met with shocked silence and that seemed to encourage him more. I luxuriated in this glorious clash of civilizations and enjoyed the congregations discomfiture more than was probably good for me.

When I grew up, I worked as a programmer and, when the opportunity arose, left England to live in Arabia working for various American companies. There I continued to build my, albeit skewed, jigsaw puzzle of America. I met all kinds of people and, unconsciously, built my world view. I found southerners soft-spoken, polite, and charming. Texans were particularly strange, their speech was so slow, but they were smart and quick thinking. My boss was from Kentucky and I couldn't meet with him without cracking up. I think he did it deliberately. He once said that his truck brakes failed on a hill and by the time he managed to stop "his ass had managed to pick half a pound of cotton from the seat." 

I met Mormons and Mid-Westerners too and didn't care so much for what I heard, the former seemed smug and judgemental, whereas the latter seemed parochial and xenophobic -- I heard a couple of women commenting about their perceived lack of gratitude among Europeans, saying about the end of WWII, "We should have let them starve!" -- I thought, if I ever go to the States, I'll give that one a miss.

The opportunity came sooner than I expected. I had visited Florida on a programming class, my children had been attending American schools all the time we were in Arabia and, suddenly I was out of a job. I went back to England which in the eighties was undergoing some economic turmoil and, given the opportunity of working in California, took it.

For twenty years, I lived as an expatriate, never intending to stay. My children made the decision for me by marrying and starting their own families. I visited all over -- Texas and the South, Washington and New York, even Ohio and Utah. My initial impression of Mid-Westerners remained unchanged as political spats about evolution, gays, and global weather change roiled across society.

We made friends with a couple of families in New England and we exchange visits at least once a year. While there I work on a farm and it takes me back to happy days I found when I was growing up. There's nothing like fresh air, good food, and hard work.

I've visited Washington and was impressed, particularly by the architecture, art and paintings, but it was Canterbury in New Hampshire that had the greatest effect. The lives of the Shakers seemed so productive, so good...and now, like the Native American...living their chosen way, are all gone. I felt sad, yet thankful to have known about such people. They seemed so worthy.

Then there was the Bridge at Concord. 

I was mentally moving towards being a US citizen and that visit convinced me. I stood on the northern bank of the river and imagined how much courage it took to fire a volley at the British knowing full well there would be a well-ordered response. I pondered the moment and realized the meaning of my life -- that I was both English and American and that I needed to mark the moment.

I took the Oath of Allegiance on August 15, 2012.