“OK, so what's the word for 'wallet'?” I asked.
My Chinese teacher and I were tackling a new verb – 带 (dài / to bring) – and talking about the sorts of things we're always sure to bring with us when we leave the house.
“钱包 (qiánbāo),” she replied, repeating it slowly so I could correct my tones.
“Ah, 'money bag,'” I replied, repeating it a few times.
Breaking new words down always helped with new vocabulary. Seven months into my Chinese language education, I found it helped to take each part of a word and identify them individually.
Cellphone: “手机 (shŏuzī)” becomes “hand machine”.
Computer: “电脑 (diànnăo)” becomes “electricity brain”.
Once I split things up, I recalled them easier. Oh, of course cell phone is hand machine. A machine that fits in your hand. That definition makes sense. But really, it's the definition that comforts me. The reason behind a word.
Ultimately, I want things placed in a definable space, so I can wrap my head around them and move on from there. My biggest problems in Chinese class come when my teacher cannot offer an explanation. “No why,” they'll say, causing my brain to slip further into a language-related breakdown. I cannot seem to remember for any period of time something I cannot define.
If I had to guess, this struggle isn't unique to me. But it has caused a fair few internal dialogues and debates as I attempt (and fail) to define a particular word: expat.
As per Webster's definition, an expatriate is one who “leaves one's native country to live elsewhere.”
Having left Colorado to live in Beijing, I fit that definition well. It's true – I'm an expat.
Well-defined as an American, I am also (in no particular order):
I knew who I was back home. I worked hard to create a definition around myself that I not only understood but found happiness in.
Then I moved abroad.
Suddenly, there was this word - “expat” - floating around. And while I literally fit the mold, I found through discussions with other expats that there seems to be a deeper definition we're searching for:
What does it mean to be an expat?
Sure, we were all living abroad, but what did that mean? All bunched together into one foreign clump, how could we stand out as the individual? What made our personal experiences abroad special? What would we do here that would be different than those we left back in our “native country”?
It's a lot to piece together.
So I started to build a new definition.
I'm still an eldest daughter, college graduate, craft beer enthusiast, etc. I still have no patience for dating, no preference between cats or dogs, and no limit to what I'll spend on new books. Though after these seven months in Beijing, I could add “low-level Chinese language student,” to the list. I was now a “freelance writer” and “BASEDtraveler” and “English teacher.” I was a frequent rider of public transportation and a tofu-obsessed vegetarian. I was a writer, a traveler and an avid WiFi-signal seeker.
Not too shabby a definition.
Yet questions still bothered me. I'd talk to other expats and hear their stories. They'd regale me with travel tales and expat experiences. Summoning waiters with ease, others would highlight their far superior Chinese skills and then slip into another language they dabbled in while living in such 'n' such country for a few years. Their years in Beijing allowed them to discuss the city with more assurance than I could. They knew better what Beijingers did, or how things were done in China, and their “insiders knowledge” left me feeling a bit on the outside looking in.
It made me wonder:
This list of questions goes on and has sometimes left me overwhelmed.
I had made the move, hadn't I? I'd left everything I knew behind to immerse myself in a culture utterly opposite of my own. I was working in a field I had no experience in. I was living in Beijing, too, learning the language and facing the same struggles. So why was it I felt somehow inferior to those who “outranked” me in Beijing residence? Why weren't my considerable passport stamps enough?
Crickets. They chirped and I sat stumped until, finally, I started asking the right questions.
And the big one: Why am I trying to define this?
My love for definition had led me down the rabbit hole. Suddenly, my time living abroad was being held to a measuring stick that kept bending and growing and shifting its shape with every new question. Riddling my way through them was causing me to miss out on the experience itself.
Once I took ownership of my expat life, I found the answer to quiet the questions: There is no definition for my expat experience, just like there is no real definition for who I am. It's a series of events and experiences and immeasurable delights that would create this expat “definition,” not a bunch of answers to shallow, competitive questions.
Much like Elizabeth Gilbert in “Eat Pray Love,” I'm a woman in search of a word. Or rather, a collection of words I can string together to write one hell of a story.
My Chinese teacher and I were tackling a new verb – 带 (dài / to bring) – and talking about the sorts of things we're always sure to bring with us when we leave the house.
“钱包 (qiánbāo),” she replied, repeating it slowly so I could correct my tones.
“Ah, 'money bag,'” I replied, repeating it a few times.
Breaking new words down always helped with new vocabulary. Seven months into my Chinese language education, I found it helped to take each part of a word and identify them individually.
Cellphone: “手机 (shŏuzī)” becomes “hand machine”.
Computer: “电脑 (diànnăo)” becomes “electricity brain”.
Once I split things up, I recalled them easier. Oh, of course cell phone is hand machine. A machine that fits in your hand. That definition makes sense. But really, it's the definition that comforts me. The reason behind a word.
Ultimately, I want things placed in a definable space, so I can wrap my head around them and move on from there. My biggest problems in Chinese class come when my teacher cannot offer an explanation. “No why,” they'll say, causing my brain to slip further into a language-related breakdown. I cannot seem to remember for any period of time something I cannot define.
If I had to guess, this struggle isn't unique to me. But it has caused a fair few internal dialogues and debates as I attempt (and fail) to define a particular word: expat.
As per Webster's definition, an expatriate is one who “leaves one's native country to live elsewhere.”
Having left Colorado to live in Beijing, I fit that definition well. It's true – I'm an expat.
Well-defined as an American, I am also (in no particular order):
- an eldest daughter and big sister;
- a college graduate;
- a professional journalist;
- a regular, yet novice, hiker;
- a craft-beer enthusiast;
- a food lover;
- an equal-opportunity cat and dog lover;
- a loyal friend;
- an unsuccessful girlfriend (though not for a lack of trying);
- a piss-poor dater (for a lack of trying, thanks to a lack of patience);
- an avid reader; etc.
I knew who I was back home. I worked hard to create a definition around myself that I not only understood but found happiness in.
Then I moved abroad.
Suddenly, there was this word - “expat” - floating around. And while I literally fit the mold, I found through discussions with other expats that there seems to be a deeper definition we're searching for:
What does it mean to be an expat?
Sure, we were all living abroad, but what did that mean? All bunched together into one foreign clump, how could we stand out as the individual? What made our personal experiences abroad special? What would we do here that would be different than those we left back in our “native country”?
It's a lot to piece together.
So I started to build a new definition.
I'm still an eldest daughter, college graduate, craft beer enthusiast, etc. I still have no patience for dating, no preference between cats or dogs, and no limit to what I'll spend on new books. Though after these seven months in Beijing, I could add “low-level Chinese language student,” to the list. I was now a “freelance writer” and “BASEDtraveler” and “English teacher.” I was a frequent rider of public transportation and a tofu-obsessed vegetarian. I was a writer, a traveler and an avid WiFi-signal seeker.
Not too shabby a definition.
Yet questions still bothered me. I'd talk to other expats and hear their stories. They'd regale me with travel tales and expat experiences. Summoning waiters with ease, others would highlight their far superior Chinese skills and then slip into another language they dabbled in while living in such 'n' such country for a few years. Their years in Beijing allowed them to discuss the city with more assurance than I could. They knew better what Beijingers did, or how things were done in China, and their “insiders knowledge” left me feeling a bit on the outside looking in.
It made me wonder:
- How long do you have to live abroad to be a real expat?
- If you return home after one or three or ten years, is your time spent living abroad somehow lesser to those who insist they'll live abroad forever?
- How many stamps in my passport did I need to have before I could “compete” with them?
- What does it take to earn this glitzy, glammy definition of “expat” - the word friends back home thought of as exotic and mysterious and oh-so-cool?
This list of questions goes on and has sometimes left me overwhelmed.
I had made the move, hadn't I? I'd left everything I knew behind to immerse myself in a culture utterly opposite of my own. I was working in a field I had no experience in. I was living in Beijing, too, learning the language and facing the same struggles. So why was it I felt somehow inferior to those who “outranked” me in Beijing residence? Why weren't my considerable passport stamps enough?
Crickets. They chirped and I sat stumped until, finally, I started asking the right questions.
- Why am I trying to compete at all?
- What's the point in worrying what others are doing or what they have done?
- Who the hell cared how long I'd been here or what I was doing or how much Chinese I'd retained? Wasn't this about my level and my experience at my pace?
- Why would I set a quantified expectation on passport stamps, when to have any is a beautiful privilege?
And the big one: Why am I trying to define this?
My love for definition had led me down the rabbit hole. Suddenly, my time living abroad was being held to a measuring stick that kept bending and growing and shifting its shape with every new question. Riddling my way through them was causing me to miss out on the experience itself.
Once I took ownership of my expat life, I found the answer to quiet the questions: There is no definition for my expat experience, just like there is no real definition for who I am. It's a series of events and experiences and immeasurable delights that would create this expat “definition,” not a bunch of answers to shallow, competitive questions.
Much like Elizabeth Gilbert in “Eat Pray Love,” I'm a woman in search of a word. Or rather, a collection of words I can string together to write one hell of a story.