My Immigrant Boot Camp

I moved to England in my 20s. I had all the advantages—my whiteness, knowing the language, a financial cushion, and a support system—and it was still hard.

Peel Tower in Ramsbotton, Lancashire via Adobe Stock Photo

I moved to England in my twenties. I only lived there a couple of years, but it was enough to impress upon me how hard it is to be an immigrant. And that’s with having had all the advantages, more than most immigrants, including my parents. I wasn’t even an immigrant, not really. I was an expat.

I moved into a nice little terraced house in a hamlet in the North of England. The stone-fronted house was halfway up Holcombe Hill in Ramsbottom. The windowsill in the largest bedroom, which was wide enough to curl up in, overlooked the Pennines across the valley. An unobstructed view.

My ex-girlfriend, a British citizen, arranged everything. She had studied abroad at Boston College, where we met. When she moved back to England ahead of my senior year, we did the long-distance thing, but by the end of the year, I knew we would drift apart unless I did something big. So, I moved to England.

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I had a ready-made support system there, thanks to my ex, her family, and her friends. I also had no issue living and working there on account of my dual citizenship with Spain, courtesy of my parents. As a European citizen, I was afforded the right to live and work in England, which, at the time, was still a member of the E.U.

I had financial support too. My brother-in-law gave me a wad of money, Tony-Soprano-style. I had saved up a little money working odd jobs (admin work at a law office and rummaging through offices for spare sparts) and living rent-free at my parents’ house. On top of all that, my ex had a good job. All the financial bases were covered. All of which is to say, I had a safety net, and I had people helping me every step of the way.

I also knew the language. It’s hard to overstate how convenient that is. Getting around was no issue. I was able to read all the signage and ask for directions, able to search for and apply for jobs online, and able to interview with no difficulty. I was able to communicate with my ex’s family and friends.

And yet…

It was hard.

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Firstly, there were logistical challenges. I had trouble setting up a bank account, for instance. I can’t remember exactly what the issue was, but it was some kind of administrative loop, as in needing proof of address to set up a bank account but also needing a bank account to set up utilities in my name that would provide said proof of address.

Secondly, everything was…strange—not objectively strange, just different. Little things. A cheeseburger was a beefburger with cheese. They ate beans and blood sausage for breakfast. They washed their dishes in a bowl. They always, without fail, placed their fork and knife side by side to indicate they were done with their meal. That’s not a class thing. Everyone did it. Americans go on about how they drive on the other side of the road, but try being a pedestrian there. Try crossing the street over there with your brain wired to look left first. I lost count of how many times I almost got folded by a Vauxhall in those first couple of months. All little things, of course, but they were legion, serving as constant reminders of my outsider status.

Ramsbotton, Lancashire via Adobe Stock Photo

Thirdly, their accents, especially some northern accents, were impenetrable to me. Scouse. Geordie. Oh boy, look them up if you’ve never heard them. That’s without even getting into Scottish or Welsh accents. Where I lived in Lancashire was hard enough. At times, I felt like an ESL student. I found myself squinting at my ex’s father like he was the Mediterranean sun at noon. If you’re an American, watch Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels without subtitles to begin to get an idea of what I mean.

It wasn’t just the accents. Their cadence was different, clipping some words and phrases while elongating other sounds. For example, instead of “down the road,” my ex’s father would say, “down’t roooad. Adding to my confusion were their galaxies of slang and idioms, infinitely more varied and vast than in the U.S., perhaps because they had more time to amass them.

Lastly, I felt like an outsider. I got more used to their ways and how they spoke over time, but I never felt like I belonged. There was a widespread mistrust of foreigners, not unlike many parts of the U.S. My ex’s father was one such person. He complained about “bloody foreigners” and “Pakis,” a catch-all epithet for Pakistanis and anyone else who looked vaguely South Asian.

During one Sunday roast, he went on a marathon rant about “foreigners,” with my ex peppering him with baleful looks throughout. He plowed forward, oblivious, until a while later it finally clicked. He realized what his daughter had been trying to tell him: There was a foreigner sitting across the table from him.

“Not you, though,” he said. “You’re aright, mate.”

I found it both amusing and sad. Becoming friendly with a “foreigner” doesn’t disabuse the anti-immigrant person of their preconceived notions. That immigrant simply becomes the exception to the rule. I was his exception.

It’s also impossible to ignore the racial component. I am a white-passing (or white by some people’s standards) Hispanic. When my ex’s father said “foreigner,” he wasn’t talking about me, no, he was talking about South Asian immigrants.

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I got an even more concentrated dose of nativism from the local butcher’s son. The local butcher was a jovial fellow. His son, on the other hand, was a crank. One time, I randomly bumped into the butcher’s son at a bar in Manchester. I saw him like I’d never seen him before—in good humor—no doubt a function of the alcohol he’d clearly quaffed.

He recognized me and came over straight away. He was sweating, hair stuck to his forehead in rivulets. It was only then, not separated by a counter, that I realized how big he was. He wasn’t that tall, maybe six-feet tall, but he was barrel-chested with a broad, blocky head.

Ramsbottom Train Station via Adobe Stock Photo

“Hiya, mate,” he said warmly.

“Oh, hey, what’s up?”

“You’re the American in Rammy, eh?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

“That’s good. We’ve got to stick together,” he said.

“OK.”

“We’re the same, we are.”

“Uh huh.”

“English and Americans.”

I tried to change the topic.

“You know, the meat at your butcher shop might be the best I’ve ever tasted.”

I wasn’t lying. I’ve never eaten more natural and fresh food than when I lived there.

“What we have is fresh,” he said.

“Absolutely.”

“You should see the meat these Pakis put in their curries.”

“Oh, really?”

“Aye. I’ve seen it with me own eyes. It’s green.”

“…”

“Disgusting.”

As I contemplated my exit route, he handed me a flyer for some kind of nativist or white supremacist group.

“I’m Harold,” he said, extending his plump hand.

“Pablo,” I said, accepting the handshake, but when I said my name, a puzzled expression crossed his face.

“Are you one of them Spaniards?” he blurted. It was blunt but also rather innocent.

“I grew up in the U.S.,” I said, “but, yeah, that’s where my family’s from.”

His brow remained knitted for a few moments, as if he were calculating whether that disqualified me. His frown soon dissolved, but I’ll never know the verdict of that internal math, and that’s quite alright with me.

“Alright, mate,” he said. “See ya.”

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I was dreadfully homesick toward the end of my time in England, but returning to the U.S. didn’t cure my homesickness. It simply inverted it. I missed my ex. I missed things I’d grown accustomed to in England, like tea culture, pub culture, the moody weather, the tidy landscape, the glut of historical artefacts strewn across every village and city in the country, the dry humor, and, yes, fish and chips and curry dishes.

When I moved back to the States., everything felt different, though I knew I was the one who was different, recalibrated in such a way that rendered everything a bit off. Friends and family recognized a change, even pointing out my accent, which had apparently assumed some Englishness.

Eventually, I shook off this feeling, and the Englishness in my accent dissipated, but the experience left a mark on me, one that helped me understand my mother better. She always seemed a little sad when she talked about Argentina and her family. Part of it was that she missed her family. Part of it was that she missed Argentina, her Argentina, an Argentina that no longer existed. But now, I suspected, there was something else too.

She might have lamented the loss of something in herself. Moving to a new country takes a toll. Mine was a jaunt compared to what my mother did. Her troubles had serious consequences; mine were minor inconveniences of food tasting weird and people talking funny.

Still, I gained a new perspective. I had come to realize that when you move to a new place, I mean really move, uprooting and taking root elsewhere, you gain some things, things that add texture and richness and strength and wisdom, but you also leave pieces of you behind.

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