To a particular kind of misfits
I rarely grant myself the pleasure of watching movies so the frustration is even greater when the movie turns out to bad. The other day, I watched Bohemian Rhapsody.
I enjoyed it a lot. And I mention this because it spontaneously came to mind when I started writing this post. When John Reid, who would go on to become their manager, asked the band members on their first encounter why Queen is different, Freddie Mercury replied: ‘We’re four misfits who don’t belong together. We’re playing for other misfits. And the outcasts right in the back of the room, we’re pretty sure they don’t belong either. We belong to them.’
With this post, I am writing as a particular kind of misfit to the other similar misfits in the room, who are, indeed, too often, in the back of the room. This may suprise. And, partly at least, rightly so. Why should I be a misfit? Conventional trajectory through education, a healthy and loving family, good social embeddedness, regular physical activity, fulfilment of civic and military duties, no criminal record, no addiction to drugs ,… A life lived by the book, one may get the impression.
However, there are some aspects one does not really have control over. And they would probably be a lot less relevant had I grown up elsewhere, closer to where I was born. But I have not. I have grown up in the country that my parents have chosen (or not) to emigrate to, which lies in the heart of Europe. Which makes me a first-generation immigrant. However, given the circumstances and my age at the time, my experiences rather resemble the ones of second-generation immigrants, for whom this country has come up with a specific and innovative label: secondos.
I guess by now you’ll have understood what I am getting at. If I do indeed fit – in almost every possible way – into what was my ‘host’ and has meanwhile become my ‘home’ country (although this distinction would merit a more extended discussion), there are aspects linked to my being a *secondo, *which will always hamper my perfect and neatless fitting in and belonging. And that’s what brings me closer to those other secondos, those misfits in the back of the room.
Our stories are, of course, different, yet still similar. We are children to parents who left their countries because life became unbearable at some point. They chose Europe as a destination to allow us to grow up in peace and safety, have a good education, realise our dreams (and the dreams they had for us), and so on. Most of them had a hard time when they came here: legally, economically, socially, culturally, emotionally. They worked their way up (or at least forward) and made sure we had everything we needed. Self-realisation wasn’t really their thing. They were simply too busy making things work out in a way so, at some point in our lives, we would be able self-realise. Eventually, they managed to achieve a state of solid functionality in their new country and, perhaps to a lesser degree, in their new society.
This is a common story that will resonate with most secondos. And in and of itself, this is already a success story. The success story of our parents. Is it ours, though?
Most of us probably remember a moment in their childhood when they realised (and were reminded) that they were different, ‘not from here’. Not from here because they looked different, because, at home, their parents spoke another language and ate different things (or simply ate differently). Because their parents had satellite dishes installed so they could watch foreign channels, knew the best ways to call abroad, because they didn’t spend their winter vacations skiing. Many stereotypical attributes that, combined, do a surprisingly good job of describing our otherness. Our inherited otherness.
I have realised, over the years, that I am attracted to secondos. In a bizarre way, secondos seem to flock together. We may be completely different in every possible way, but the similarities of our genealogies trump* everything (*I hesitated to type this word, then did anyway, then erased it again not to give him any accidental credit, and then typed it again because I realised how ridiculous this was) . Beyond that, what really helps us bond on an emotional level, I believe, is the profoundly incisive (though protracted) experience of being ‘othered’, constructed as an ‘other’, different, not belonging, not fitting. A misfit. Some of us do anything to blend in. Others rebel and do anything to stand out. Some are ashamed of the difference, others are (sometimes ostensively) proud of it. Whether we deny or embrace our difference, deep inside we are aware of it.
That is only half of the story. The other half is the way we don’t fit into the culture or context or society or community that we supposedly emerged from. That, also, is something that people don’t fail to remind us of: We have become ‘westernised’, adopted individualism, capitalism, consumerism. We watch American movies and TV series, listen to American music. We care more about cars, bars and stars than about traditions, culture and community. We are apolitical – neither do we care about local politics, nor about the politics of our country (if country there is) or region of origin. We have forgotten the history and language of our culture, our community, our family.
Accusations that *s**econdos *will be all too familiar with.
Where does that lead us? Put bluntly, to a form of moderate to severe schizophrenia. It keeps us struggling to reconcile two different contexts, asking us to do justice to expectations from both sides. It forces us to constantly reflect on our position, our behaviour, our statements, our choices. It makes us question ourselves. Worse, even, it can lead us to lie and deceive, to adopt different personas, fake or exaggerate or hide certain types of behaviour. It can break some of us.
The purpose of this post is not to judge nor accuse nor suggest solutions. I have come to believe that the baffling similarity of our stories is evidence for the fact that the processes involved are rather natural. In other words, the fact that secondos, despite their sheer limitless heterogeneity, connect so easily, merely through their shared experience of otherness, means that neither our host nor our original community can really be said to engage in abnormal **behaviour. This burden is something we have inherited, alongside all other precious things our parents may have passed on to us.
Our existence is testimony to their success stories. But our success stories have yet to be written. And that will depend, at least partly, on how we choose to deal with our otherness.