I don’t actually like the word “expat”
Here’s the thing — I live in a country that is not my own. Like a large number of people all around the world, travel, circumstance and opportunity have combined to see me far from my home shores. I’m just fine with that — after all, I chose this life.
My home country has flaws aplenty but I still feel on over-riding, strange affection for it from afar. I can see it for what is, without being residentially bound to defend its less honorable moments. I also really love the country where I’ve ended up although it, too, has plenty of things that regularly drive me fucking nuts.
Maybe I’ll fess up to these two places later. Maybe sharper readers will guess anyway, given the language I’m writing in (that rather assumes I’m going to have readers, which is unusually optimistic of me — if there turn out not to be any this will at least be free therapy).
But this one word really bothers me, although I often use it myself.
“Expat”.
Why? Well, this word all too often refers only to some of the people who have chosen to settle elsewhere. I’ve noticed time and again that darker-skinned people are more usually referred to as “immigrants”; “expats” are almost always either white, middle/upper class — or both.
No-one refers to an Indian living and working in, say, Paris, as an expat. Neither would the word “immigrant” commonly be applied to, say, a German living in New York. So why do I describe myself as an “expat”? Maybe it’s because the word “immigrant” has become so pejorative, even though that’s exactly what I am. I chose to move countries for economic opportunity — neither I, my wife nor any members of my immediate family hold nationality in my country of residence. Grumpy Immigrant Dad doesn’t quite work as a handle for me, though. Admit it, you’re picturing something else now, aren’t you?
Two sets of my great grandparents migrated from Europe to the US. One set of grandparents migrated as refugees from Europe to the US and then to South America. One parent migrated from South America to the UK and then to Australia. The other migrated (for 15 years) to the Middle East before returning to his country of origin. My brother migrated to Australia. I migrated to where I live. I am only alive because of the basic human desire to migrate and yet the word I have to use to describe myself doesn’t derive from that verb, but from some obscure Latin phrase more likely to be recognised and accepted by people who look more like me.
I am an immigrant, and proud of it. Just so you know.
