It’s funny how a big part of why I came back last year was I wanted my child to be “American”. I know that’s a problematic construct to begin with and I also know that it’s not like I can control him like that. Because kids are organic little monsters with their very own nature, that can perhaps be cultivated but never directed.
What I meant when I said that I wanted him to be American was that I wanted him to be like me. I didn’t figure this out until I got flamed by that guy who didn’t like the way I talked about Grenada’s schools. I was using that as an excuse. Because the schools there are just like the schools here, in that most of them suck and a handful are pretty good. You know? I’m an elitist. I never went to public school. I was a teacher’s kid, so I’m not as spoiled as that makes me sound, but whatever. Tangential.
What actually bugged me about the prospect of Bean growing up and being educated in the Caribbean was that he wouldn’t learn “our” geography or history and he’d be totally unfamiliar with entities like Target and Ruby Tuesday’s. Netflix and thirteen varieties of diet Coke. I wanted him to sound like me. To have my accent and my slang. I wanted him to identify as like me, rather than as other than me. But right now? Gawd. Get us out of this place. We’ll come back in 20 years, when Glenn Beck is off the air.
Do I feel good about burying my head in the sand and running away from what I feel is a potentially toxic environment for my child? No, just lucky. Not everyone has that opportunity.
Do I abdicate my responsibility as an informed citizen? Am I going to stop paying attention to the world while I’m hiding in the tropics waiting for American political extremism to take it down a thousand? No. I will not. I’ll still be the same person, doing and saying the same things. I’ll still be trashtalking my dad because he thinks Rush Limbaugh is a scholar and Sean Hannity is a saint. I’ll just be doing it from the equator.
