It’s been eleven years since I left. I did not intend to stay this long. The original plan was to leave after seven years, taking husband and cats with me, and move back to my apartment in Dublin.
Then, I became used to my life on a small island across the bay from San Diego. The weather is perfect here. Most days, I need no longer rush to the window to pull back the curtains to see if there’s an aqua blue sky outside. It’s usually there and, if not, it will be back shortly. No living under low, threatening, dark clouds for me. “Ah, but that’s what makes Ireland so green” I’m told here.
Yet, I’m struck by that green every time I fly back to Ireland. On our approach into Dublin, once we have lurched our way through several layers of those dark, threatening clouds, there it is, in all of its verdant shades. It speaks to me as if my very blood were green.
I feel a childlike delight when I listen to the announcements (in Irish and in English), that I’m back in Dublin again. My spirit veritably jumps up and down, listening to people who speak like I do. It is through the people at home (and I still call it “home”) that I again find my own identity. Strangers, family, good friends. All of them help me knit myself back together again.
The people in Southern California are, in the main, kind and well-meaning. Most of them rejoice in my Irishness and that still fills me with wonder. Being Irish here is like having that extra passport that lets you pass by the normal borders people have with strangers.
I sometimes get away with things because it is put down to my Irish “quirkiness”. It is even said I am some people’s favourite Irish person. That possibly would be because I’m the only Irish person they know. In some instances, my role as an “ambassador” makes me want to present the best me possible, so that we don’t all get a bad name. I strive to be better in all kinds of ways which, of course, has to be a good thing.
But no matter how well received I am here, I feel like I’m getting into a comfortable suit of clothes when I go home. I never feel that in San Diego. I’m too watchful, alert to the very high sense of “political correctness” I find here sometimes. There’s nothing wrong with being careful about others’ feelings, but when you have to watch your Ps and Qs because someone might take umbrage against my saying the word “Christmas” for instance.
And sometimes I just don’t care what I say. Not in a bad way, but I just have to let go of the constraints for a moment. There is also the dichotomy of what I hear and the behaviours I see that really confuse me sometimes. At home, everything tends to be more overt.
There’s an ache in my heart when I think of family and friends that an annual two-week holiday never fills. Yet I know I have an incredibly good life here in so many ways and should feel thankful. I do feel thankful. I just want it all. The Irish and the American. I will have to just be content with what I have. And it is indeed a good life.
