This post picks up on another post I wrote on a blog I share with my best friend: Postcards Between Us, and her great piece about her experience being a Belgian abroad.
For my second Master thesis I constructed a complex, academic rather obnoxious piece on the European identity. Does it exist, and if so, what does it imply? You can ask the same question for pretty much every nationality or ethnic group one may or may not feel a part of. And while I have trouble now understanding my own thesis as it’s full of academic drivel, I’m still intrigued by the premise of the question.
With the Belgian political crisis well beyond the absurd, non-Belgians must wonder why it’s so hard to form a government in so small a country. Answers can be reduced to historical linguistic issues or socio-economic concerns, but these surely only skim the surface of feelings that have been running through the veins of Belgians for decades. Belgium is a marriage of fundamentally different partners, compatible only through a shared love of good food and beer, who now feel the other has spent more of the household budget than is right and are considering separation, if not divorce.
While dividing the assets and the kid (the capital) may prove too cumbersome for a true divorce, this split or no debacle reveals many Belgians don’t identify themselves as Belgian. One might wonder what makes one a true Belgian? Is it the title on your ID? Do you have to be born here to qualify? Do you have to like waffles, chocolate and Jacques Brel? Do you have to speak Dutch, French and German or be fanatical about just one?
Similarly, what would make one European or American or Asian? When people complain that Obama isn’t really black, what in their minds makes one black or white? And why should he be less of either when he is clearly both? So what of mixed race babies? Because we are not one of the other, can we therefore never fit in? In the sixties, we were quietly left on orphanage doorsteps what with being an embarrassment for both races. Now we are awkwardly accepted and often welcomed with imposing questions.
What ultimately defines a nation, a peoples, a cultural group? And when are we so different that we feel rejection of the Other is justified? I can’t even answer the question “Where are you from?, let alone “what cultural/racial group do you feel part of?” Identity is fluid. It can be flexible. It can be whatever you make of it.
I’ve always found I did not fit in, while also feeling at home everywhere. Every year I understand more about the culture and history of my families. And the more I discover about my background, the more I learn to feel like me. I feel more comfortable in my body, with my face, my crazy ass skin color (seriously, what color is it?), my abilities and disposition. Every year I appreciate those parts of me that were previously unknown and unaccepted. And as the world around me becomes increasingly intolerant of those who don’t fit, I become increasingly accepting and proud of that which makes me stand out.
I am.
And that’s just fine.
