Falling Back Into the Old Country

Attenborough Nature Reserve. Photo by author.

I am an immigrant. I am one of the millions who have chosen to make America a home.

(Have there been times when politics have made me regret this? A few…)

For me, the Old Country is England. Specifically, it is the English Midlands, where 19th century brick houses built for factory workers line so many streets. Where old quarries have become havens for waterfowl. Where the name Margaret Thatcher brings forth a smoldering hatred outsiders seldom understand.

And every so often, I go back. This periodic reentry is something which reminds me of who I am.

Sometimes I even think of it as going home, because sometimes it is home, even if it’s one I will never live in again. I’m reminded of the time my husband found out one of his childhood homes was for sale and asked the owners if we could sneak a peek.

Home is not just where you are now. Home is every place you have been, unless it binds itself to pain, and maybe that’s a kind of home too. A home for the dark parts of us.

Leigh canal and converted mill. Photo by author.

Returning

So, what is it like for a woman who has spent more than 20 years in an American city…