Becoming more of the places you leave

There’s this stereotype in Australia—maybe everywhere outside the US—that if you ask an American where they’re from, they will give you an incredibly specific answer. Not the US or Oregon but: “Oh, the west side of Bend?” People find this very annoying (imagine!). Unfortunately, people also find it annoying when you tell them you are from the US (“Yes, that was apparent from your very obvious accent”) and will follow up by asking where in the US, to which I say California, which is accurate enough. It’s the last place I lived before moving to Australia, and it’s doing a lot better in the global name-recognition game than Oregon. I have never felt more Californian than while living in Australia, and I never felt more Oregonian than living in California.

Something you’re supposed to think about when writing a cast of characters is how to balance their sameness and differentness. Like, if you’ve written a friend group, the characters should be unique enough that they can help each other grow and change but similar enough that it makes sense they’d be friends. I think people do this in real life, too—you want to have the same basic ethos as your friends, but you also want to be an individual. Early in college, I started using “English major from Central Oregon” as shorthand for who I was—traits that were not so important they made me feel like an outsider but that I did not share with most of my peers. Identity formation lite!

While I was actually growing up in Oregon, though, I did not think of myself as Oregonian. Nor did I particularly like Oregon. I thought it was dusty and lacked museums. I did not own a single pair of Birkenstocks! And then I went to college and suddenly made outdoorsiness part of my brand. I wanted my new peers to look at me and think, “Yes, that is a woman who knows how to light a campfire using a small piece of glass and a pine needle.” None of this felt fake or contrived at the time, though it probably looked that way to my family. Eventually, it stopped feeling like identity formation and started feeling like fully formed identity. I now own many Birkenstocks.

But then I moved to Australia, and telling Australians you are from Oregon just won’t get you as far. But there’s a whole different set of assumptions that come with being “Californian”—people want to know if you surf, if you’ve worked in tech, if you’ve ever tried driving in LA. You build yourself a new script. Perhaps you acquire a pair of Allbirds.

In Australia, I have developed such an affinity for American things that do not necessarily need my affinity. Sweetgreen. Spelling words with Zs. Trader Joe’s. Any American folk musician. They’re things that remind me of who I was before and who I could be again. But I’ve been wondering lately if I will feel residually Australian after I leave, and I think the answer is no. No, because while Australia is a place I have lived, it’s not a type of person I feel I have been. Maybe if I got permanent residency? Citizenship?

I wonder how good we are at guessing if something we’re living through is going to become how we define ourselves or just an experience we had once. I think it probably depends what you do next—and the people you meet there, and how you fit among them. It probably depends whether you want to fit in or be unique. I started pondering this because I was thinking about how to write an author bio. If I’ve written a book about moving abroad and being homesick (👀), part of me wants to say, “Look, I have moved abroad and been homesick! I am a reliable source!” But there’s no charming or smooth way to say I lived in Australia but don’t anymore; that I spent a while in Australia but am not Australian. It might just be one of those things I mention in passing, in person, with decreasing frequency: “Laura Brooke Robson lived abroad for a while, but alas—she reconsidered.”

Currently reading: Big Magic by Elizabeth Gilbert, which reads like a doctrine for the religion of creativity. I don’t think it particularly matters whether you agree that ideas have supernatural properties—it’s compelling enough to hear someone make a case for it.

Non-urgent thought of the week: If I were to become a wise old park man, I feel I would eschew chess and force passersby to play Rummikub.

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