Like millions of people all over the globe, I have multiple identities and I (probably) don’t need to seek professional help.
Just read on and trust me. I know how to switch identities. It’s a standard exercise for travellers, immigrants, people with roots in a country and a life miles away who have two or more passports and speak several languages.
If life is a book, all I need to turn the page and start another chapter is a plane ticket. These endless hours up the air when I’m no longer here but not quite there yet are mandatory mental prep time. The in-flight map claims we are right over various cities, countries, and oceans. I beg to differ. We’re nowhere. It’s relaxing, mind numbing even.
Exactly what I need to clear my mind—being nowhere.
In the days leading up to a departure, it seems unreal that hours from now, I’ll be somewhere else, living a different life, using another language. It’s best to just let it happen because my brain can’t adjust until I’m physically in another location. If I’m sweating, I can’t remember what being cold feels like. If there’s snow on the ground, I can’t picture myself wearing shorts even though it will be hot enough for summer clothes. Not being able to get a fresh, out-of-the-oven baguette daily is unthinkable, even though I know I’ll be just fine with store-bought sliced bread. “Oh, I’m gonna miss this,” my heart says. “No, you won’t,” my mind replies, laughing.
Planning for a change of identity is a complete mindfuck. I try not to.
Minutes before boarding the plane, I can still feel the taste of my favourite local foods, the salty breeze, the humidity or the bitter cold. Why am I leaving, already? This is crazy, this place makes perfect sense to me! I want to stay!
Of course, I never actually turn around and decide to stay. Instead, I step into the airport to initiate the quarantine stage. It’s easy—all airports foster the same supposedly safe, bland and international atmosphere with English-speaking staff in uniform, passengers from around the world and overpriced franchise stores.
Are we there yet? Am I someone else already? It seems like it. My feet take me wherever I have to go, my brain is switching to another language. The place I’ve just left is already a memory, a collection of pictures, stories, and experiences, a treasure I cherish. Only a certain number of details my mind barely registers but my body has to adjust to remind me that I’m no longer where I was—toilet seat is lower, water pressure is stronger, streets are quieter, doors don’t squeak, laundry detergent smells different.
And that’s it. I pick up my other life where I left it. It’s still the same story, with the same characters, just another chapter with maybe a different pace or focus.
And this is how you change your identity. Easy, right?
And you can trust me because I’m an expert and…
Oh, who the fuck am I kidding?
I described my own thought process as accurately as could but I’m not an expert and it’s not that easy.
On good days, my resume claims I’m flexible and adaptable. On bad days, I feel I should add a footnote—“body here, mind wandering.”
Wires often get tangled, as an experiment gone wrong. I should know everything about France but I’m remarkably ignorant on new trends and practical adulthood matters because I left at 18. Two weeks ago, when I came back to Canada, the first language I spoke was Mandarin and the first meal I cooked was Chinese food. I can easily pass for a Latina even though I have no ties in South America. I’m a Canadian French speaker with zero Quebec accent but I can use the vocabulary when needed.
I have several identities and they’re all fighting for attention. I want to be in several places at the same time. I wish I could live several parallel lives not to miss anything the world has to offer.
Now if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go assume my Canadian identity for a while. At least I’ll try, eh.
Welcome back 😉 With time I’ve learned to amalgamate all the parts of me and in a way for me traveling around different time zones and living in several countries made me more sure of who I am at the core?
Just don’t ask me to swap languages too quickly without expecting the odd word to come out in the wrong one 😉
Welcome back!
Strangely enough, I find it relatively easy to switch from French to English and from English to French ONCE I’m in an English-speaking or French-speaking environment. Speaking French naturally in Canada is another challenge, it’s just easier to speak English! 😆
Oh I can relate so much to your post, I am in the same situation but I guess that’s what makes our life more interesting? I just hope my kids won’t get identity crisis later on :-)) at least we grew up in our own countries till 18.
It does make life interesting!
What culture do your kids identify the most with? Mark definitely feels Canadian, but at the same time he finds it completely normal that in our world, we eat yuebing and croissants, rice and cheese, etc. 😆
My kids say/think they are Dutch even though none of the parents (ancestors) has a Dutch passport or speak Dutch on a native level. They are happy to eat bread and cheese three meals a day and would literally cry when I take them to Chinese dim sum . In saying that though, they are used to the ‘eccentric’ behaviours of their grandparents and aunties and uncles. I guess it makes them somewhat more tolerant in this multicultural world:-)
Same here, I’m occasionally surprised Mark feels so Canadian but I guess I shouldn’t be–this is where he was born, where his friends live and where he goes to school. He’s still a bit young to express he finds Chinese/French customs strange, he mostly goes with the flow, but I had to answer many, many cultural questions in France!
One time we were skyping with my dad in France and he asked the kids : so, are you French or Brazilian? (I don’t know how that came about). They replied “Canadian!” We were all kind-of surprised by the answer, but frankly I’m quite pleased, because it means they feel at home here (and it is in fact, the country they were born).
I’m actually almost surprised as well considering you guys did spend a lot of time in Brazil! But you’re right, it’s great, it means you’re home. Well, I don’t know about you, but the kids are 😆