Hope and Glory Days?

 

The tree on the left is a magnolia.  Behind it, to the left of the house wall, we squeezed our camper.  That beautiful, wooden front door was installed to replace an old, black, painted-over-and-over door.  At the time of our residence, and maybe still, the windows had leaded panes - with actual lead. The upstairs bay window was my parents' bedroom.  There was no en suite bathroom, but there was a lovely old sink so that they could wash their faces and brush their teeth in private.  The downstairs bay window was our (formal) sitting room.  Our Christmas tree would stand in that window, and even as a child, I relished the peacefulness of an empty room, lit only by tree lights. 

A week or so ago, I realized that this New Year's Eve would mark the 40th anniversary of our immigration to the United States of America. December 31st, 1980, I was thirteen years old. That night, we flew with TWA into New York city, but missed our connecting flight to Pittsburgh. I stood at the giant window in our hotel room post-midnight, mesmerized by the ten lanes of traffic fighting their way through the city, realizing that this new life was going to be like nothing I had ever known. 

Since I realized that it's been 40 whole years, I've been mentally and emotionally stuck in those months surrounding the move.  Memories have been flooding my brain, I must say, it's not altogether unpleasant.  However, it got me to thinking, contemplating, and wondering about the development of my brain, and the mental health issues I ended up fighting later in life.  Based on what I know about trauma informed care, and trauma informed teaching, I started to wonder whether moving to a new country as a child is considered to be a traumatic event? 

So I started doing a little research, and it's a thing. The thing is called "Expat [ex-patriot] Child Syndrome," which is a term used by mental health professionals "to describe the emotional stress some children experience upon moving to a new country."  As with any psychological syndrome, not every child responds the same way, and there are predictive factors.  I won't bore you with specifics, but I'll tell you some interesting details, mostly things that have occurred to me since I've been a parent of older kids, that helped me to understand the impact of the move on my family. 

By December, 1980, my Dad had already been living in the Pittsburgh area (the Holiday Inn, Monroeville, to be exact) for six months.  My mum had stayed behind to help me finish up with school, sell the house, and get all of our belongings shipped.  Aside from being left to do all that, Mum, at 47, was anticipating leaving her home, her parents, her brothers, her friends and her sons.  At that point, my brothers were eighteen and twenty years old, and had chosen to complete their education in the UK before making any decisions about moving.  It wasn't until my two older kids were those ages that I could fully comprehend what must have been a heartbreaking move for my mother... leaving her entire life behind to follow her husband halfway across the world. She gave up everything to support his career move, and by default, so did I.  

At the time, it did not occur to me that I was experiencing something traumatic.  I mean it definitely wasn't easy, but I made a couple of friends, and after a few months, was doing well in school.  I fiercely missed my brothers and my grandparents, but there were visits, and the visits were always fun and happy times. I made the transition and got on with my life.  But, guys, my family was separated when I was 13 years old, and things were never the same again.  

With age comes wisdom?  Perhaps.  All I know is that I look back on those early months and years in our new home, and I notice that there are entire chunks of time that I don't remember at all.  Completely blank.  I realize that after leaving my friends behind, and having to start from scratch in a new culture, I struggled for years with building new relationships, and I had to completely rebuild my self confidence, a process which took decades. My biggest revelation, though, has been coming to understand that my personal issues surrounding loss and grief are directly related to, if not caused by our move to the USA from the UK in December of 1980. 

By no means am I complaining or blaming, truly, I'm not.  I've never resented my parents for having to move (although I can't claim the same for my mother). Life changes, and our only option is to change with it.  The truth be told, I've lived a ridiculously blessed life.  When I read about Expat Child Syndrome, I read about how children can be emotionally prepared for such a move, and the messages that parents "should" be giving to their children prior to moving.  Of course, information on trauma didn't exist then, people were described as "coming from the school of hard knocks."  My parents would have had no clue that moving a 13 year old across the world might have lasting psychological impacts... frankly, I'm lucky to have had them for parents, because they were, themselves, so strong and resilient, and so supportive of their kids.  I truly learned from the best.  

Finally, I leave you with an image of Pvt. Frederick Arthur Jones, my Grandfather, known to all of us as Grandpops... solid proof that we have a choice to either allow our hard times to turn us into life's victims, or victors.  Pops was a World War One soldier, who lost the lower part of his jaw in the Battle of the Aisne in 1918, just weeks before the war ended. He endured 5 years of plastic surgeries (from 1918-1923!!! to rebuild his jaw and face.  He went on to run a successful business, to marry the love of his life, and to raise three children, and not once did he have a harsh word for anyone, or complain about what he had to overcome. Can you imagine the PTSD? (They called it "shell shock" back then.) He was always quick with a dance and a rude joke, and he thoroughly enjoyed his nightly Newcastle Brown. After all of her own tribulations, my mother has developed many of the same qualities, even down to the rude jokes and the nightly beverage. She, herself, would never complain about her life, and continually tells me how lucky she is, but, she still cannot discuss how it felt to leave her boys behind to start a new life without them. 

I didn't always, but I truly love my life.  It took work to get here.  I'm telling you, do the work. You won't regret it.  

Take care of you. 💖