  At some point in my four years at Denison, I remember making the (yes, I know, somewhat dubious ) connection between Simon and Garfunkel's "I am a Rock, I am an I-I-I-Island" and the "cultural personality" of Great Britain. Despite discouragement in attributing this song by American folk artists to a comment on the psyche of the British nation, I feel that at least the refrain of this song says everything about our ancestral maternal nation. And now, when the entire European community is faced with the ratifying of an EU constitution, Groß Britannia is once again asserting her sceptical, biting sarcasam mixed with a grave and insistent fear that she will lose her sovereignty, not to mention her credibility in light of Blair's Iraq soireé, both of which she considers to be in a delicate, but--as in all things British-- gradual , decline. A friend of mine from Berlin who is as fiercely critical of Germany as I am of the United States insists that Britain's role as stubborn, but nonetheless respected, objector to the "federalising" of the European Union into a model akin, frighteningly enough, to the U.S. Federal government is essential to the survival of a balanced and better Europe. For a vast majority of the time, however, Britain's stubbornness in refusing to join the Euro has angered many of my other friends from the continent, in addition to a fellow countryman and friend, who characterised Britain as a nation "disobedient" and unwilling to understand the European ethos.
Of course, this same friend also spent considerable time in the UK and as a result of a number of unfortunate factors--one of which was a residency in the nucleus of racial violence and tension in the UK--he was moved to almost completely denounce this country. Indeed, if I had lived there, or had grown up in the nucleus of racial and ethnic tension in Britain, I too, would have felt very much the same as he did and perhaps still does.
The truth is, I live in cushy, benign Edinburgh, a jewel in the island's crown. But like all jewels upon closer examination, one finds a lack of interesting visual depth thanks to the blinding ricochet of light across all of its sides. Edinburgh sparkles, and enjoys a vibrant history and tourism industry, but she lacks the passionate, and defiant, pride of herself in the face of over a century of industrial exhaustion like that of her oft-overlooked sister city, Glasgow. Since I am doing my PhD at Glasgow University and live in Edinburgh (both cities linked by a relatively high-speed rail line that reduces an hour-and-a-half journey to forty-five minutes), I have been able to revel in the bounties and be disdainful about the shortcomings of both. I love my sister cities equally, and for different reasons. But I shall post on that in the future.
What concerns me in this post is the Anglo-American matrix of politics, culture, and identity. Okay, so that sentence is way too broad and way too ambitious for a blog topic , let alone a blog posting. Rather, I should say, being the egoist that this blog somehow requires me to be, how this matrix affects me when I travel between what I now consider to be my two homelands. The first time I came back to the States since I began studying and living in Scotland in the fall of 2002 was last November. A year and a half outside of my country actually caused me to be afraid of going back to face it. I had thus far enjoyed--and still do--a long and beautiful relationship with my boyfriend, Daniel, along with the gradual formation of a few friendships. Last September, Jimmy and I moved in with our third flatmate, Marcelle, into 69 Arden Street, and began to develop a sort of "Victorian family" as Marcelle jokingly referred to us when we first moved into the place. Everything seemed to come together into a steady balance in my life after a year of difficult adjustment to the loss of my Denison community and the need to build a new, but different, one.
Why was I so scared to leave the country for what would be such a short amount of time--two and a half weeks? Partly, I must SHAMEFULLY admit, my fear was due to that infintesimal part of my American psyche which actually listens to the fear-mongering reports of terrorist attacks to come...and transatlantic flights certainly bring these images to the furore, whether you agree with the presentation of the images or not. Another reason for my ambiguous fear was certainly the idea of having to face a place with which I will eternally identify myself with, but also a place which throws alot of oppositional weight against me.
Now that I have lived in a culture where cynicism and intense scepticism seem, at times, to be a way of life, going back to the fresh-faced, moral certainty and die-hard optimism of the United States almost seemed like attending a farcical parody of my current life. I suddenly cringed at the public "loudness" of people in airports, even though I have been guilty of worse "loudness" both in the States and in the UK. When the immigration official stamped my passport for re-entry into the States, he had obviously glanced at my visa stamps for studying in the UK, since he remarked, "Welcome Back". When he said that very phrase, I almost wanted to turn back to him and say, "Thanks for the kind gesture, but I'm not back yet . " The resoluteness of his "welcome back" reminded me of the days in which my Mother's friends often tried to convince me to stay in Youngstown and pursue a career there, often decrying some sort of reason that Hubbard, my hometown, was "where I belonged. " Now, walking through customs, I felt both overwhelmingly flattered at such an unusual comment coming from a stern INS official, and yet almost angry at him for supposing that I was somehow overjoyed to be back "where I belong.
" No more at any other time in my life thus far did I so desire to have a dual citizenship, a concealed maroon European Union passport burning in another sachel pocket somewhere, an emblem of my second, and secret, community across the water. As I write this, I fully realise the elitist privilege that comes with my feelings. I know that there are hundreds of people out there who deserve a British passport far more than I do...namely, the hundreds of asylum seekers who come to Britain's shores annually, with whom the British government still has no idea how to deal humanely and effectively. But I must concur that my desire for this dual citizenship would not be so resolute in me if I felt that the U.S. was successful at participating in the international community.
For me, coming back Stateside, in the first half-hour, is like being shut off from the life that I've built across the ocean. Instead of the BBC and the Guardian, I have to make do with CNN, and FOX on airport televisions, but in print, I do have my friend who I miss terribly in Britain--the New Yorker. It's the bombastic style with which our news anchors "blare" out the news that always strikes me with the most annoyance when I return...that and the fact that unless it's connected with Iraq, most international news gets little coverage. This is not to say that British media outlets don't have their own selectiveness, but overall, I get a much bigger glimpse of the world reading a British newspaper than I do when I read an American one (with the exception of the New Yorker).
However, after about an hour or so back in the Pittsburgh airport last November, I began to grow back into the comfortable spaces of my previous life in Girard, beginning with a huddle into the chilly passenger-side seat of John's enormous 1984 Oldsmobile Royale (more boat than car). And when I spent that long weekend before Thanksgiving in Cleveland with Sarah, Tara, Katie, and Kara, I felt completely restored to my place on both sides of the Atlantic.
In fact, I felt more connected to both of my lives after reuniting with Denison friends in Cleveland and Columbus that trip. As I have said numerous times before, and I hope I will say numerous times in the future, the friendships that I have made at Denison prove time and time again to be some of the rarest and most privileged friendships that I will ever experience. I know that when I return to a country that can seem so alien in its familiarity to me, these are the people who remind me, who give me back, what my home is in the United States. And this home does not heed boundaries. That "welcome back" can be reappropriated for my entrance back into this home, this place that I feel envelops the very personal space around me when I encounter these friends.
This is the America I love, the America that lives and smolders underneath the cacophony of everyday stress and cultural noise. It's the America that every American deserves to have, and deserves to pursue , to borrow a worn-out term from our forefathers' documents. It is also to this very home that I will be initiated back into when I land in Columbus on the 12th of July this year, and when I again land in LAX on the 21st of July.
I will be crossing borders, time zones, and yet, it will seem like a mere train ride from Edinburgh to Glasgow once I am in the thick of wedding plans and long conversations. Before this post wavers from its focus any more than it already has, I shall end this submission, with the intent to expand--evermore, in reality--on my experiences as an inconsequential, but rather LOUD expat. And please, PLEASE contribute. Don't let this be a mere monologue. I love you all. 
