Return from abroad: my journey as an expat, Part III

It was not an auspicious beginning.

My reentry to living in the United States again after ten years abroad could be politely characterized as clumsy. Straight after arrival, as if in indignant protest of the dark and bleak winter weather after three years living in the tropics, my body decided it would be an opportune time to catch pneumonia. It was cold! So cold.

Two weeks into my relocation to Nashville, feeling like my lungs were slowly being crushed and with my household belongings somewhere at sea, it was time for a video catch up with my boss. “You don’t look very well,” he commented matter of factly. I promptly burst into tears on camera.

Sick as a dog, check. Overly emotional, double check. Embarrassing myself in front of my boss, triple check. Like I said: it was clumsy.

Moving abroad is a topic that is extensively written about. It is widely accepted that one needs to prepare for such a relocation, and in the case of the corporate world, there are usually policies and services aimed at easing the integration to the local culture. Whether it is related to the language, culture, or the simple day-to-day needs, planning and preparation are deemed necessary. A quick Google search for advice on moving abroad will yield endless how-to tips, blogs, and personal anecdotes about how to facilitate a smooth entry.

Yet, in comparison, repatriation is almost dismissed. There is an assumption that returning to your home country is easy and thereby is inherently less supported. And in some ways, I suppose it was easier. I was not lost in the minutiae and often maddening activities of getting a work visa and opening bank accounts. I was armed with my usual array of Excel spreadsheets for moving because, well, why miss an opportunity to make a spreadsheet?

Because I did not realize that it was not going to be as easy as it seemed, I was completely unprepared for how alien I would feel. Right from the start, I experienced such a strong sense of displacement. Had the country changed? Had I changed? Or was it some combination or permutation of both factors that would be impossible to measure?

Perhaps putting a New Yorker in the deep South of the United States would have been bound to cause some culture shock regardless of whether the aforementioned New Yorker spent so many years abroad. This was not as simple as never having tried pimento cheese before or not understanding why Saturdays should be religiously devoted to watching college football. It was more nuanced than that. ?When the first friend I made in Nashville told me that she sleeps with a pistol on her bedside table, I kept my best poker face but wondered if I had mysteriously been catapulted to a different planet.

Foolishly, I kept thinking I could do the same things I had always done when I lived in Singapore, including walking alone at any time and leaving my personal belongings unattended. Personal safety was not top of mind after living in one of the safest countries in the world for three years. My neighbors were repeatedly horrified by my na?ve behavior. “You’re not in the Singapore bubble anymore. Stop acting like a total idiot,” one neighbor admonished me, not unkindly. “Why don’t you borrow my ice pick to walk home?” another friend helpfully suggested.

How we view things is undoubtedly shaped by the context in which they occur. When I moved from the Netherlands to Singapore, the commentary from others was always about how brave I was to move across the world by myself. In that context, I was daring and courageous. Suddenly, by only changing my physical address, I transformed into someone others worried about not having enough street smarts.?

Even my English language skills were askew. After years of saying “aluminium” so as not to insult my European peers, my American colleagues quickly reminded me that “aluminum” is most certainly the correct terminology and by the way, why was I saying “process” like someone from Canada? Telling someone that a monkey had come out of a sleeve in response to the truth being revealed apparently only makes sense to Dutch people, and “can” is only a suitable response to Singaporeans. Over time, I have become an amalgamation of the different cultures and places I have lived, but I never felt I became less American until I actually got back home.

I have written before about how expat life challenged my perceptions of belonging and what it means to be at home. But part of me always assumed that the familiarity of the United States would make for a seamless transition upon return. That it did not occur that way was deeply surprising to me and unexpected.

Subsequently, I learned that this is the nature of reverse culture shock. Although it is not written about as prolifically as moving abroad, it is starting to emerge more as a discussion topic within the expat community. Most articles I read seem to agree that it is unanticipated and therefore overlooked and perhaps best described by Expatica, quoting Robin Pascoe, as being akin to “wearing contact lenses in the wrong eyes. Everything looks almost right.” Others are more blunt and to the point, describing the return from abroad as “the hardest move I ever made.”

This is not an article about how to prevent reverse culture shock or solve it once it happens. There is no prescriptive answer for that. Like with most things, awareness is the first step towards change and further growth. I certainly wish I were aware of the phenomenon before I found myself right in the middle of it. And there is a very simple solution to increasing the available written material about a topic: write about it!

The great thing about shock is that sooner or later, it wears off. Here is what I can tell you after one year back: Southern hospitality is a real thing, and it is delightful. Pimento cheese is actually pretty tasty, and I very much enjoyed cheering in the stands like a total maniac at my first college football game. You can always be a tourist in your own land.