there's no place like home

"The Reluctant Fundamentalist" was a great story to end on. Not only was it a quick read, but also it was really interesting. Changez, who comes all the way from Pakistan to attend one of the most prestigious American Universities and takes a job with one of the top consulting firms in New York City, struggles with imposed identity. Since he stepped foot in America he felt like he had to compromise his own personal identity just to fit in. He was bombarded with pressures from all aspects of his life. Erica was his symbol of America, as she pranced around in her Mickey Mouse t-shirt, she represented what he couldn’t ever have, or be.

We see a distinctive transformation occur gradually. The first physical sign is the long beard. The mental transformation began before he left for Buenos Aires. It seemed like he had already made up his mind that he was done with it all and it was finally time to return home where he could be at ease and be himself. Then, he met Juan-Bautista (who was one of my favorite characters in the book). For me, Juan Bautista was like the voice of reason, you know, that little guy that stands on your shoulder and tells you the right thing to do (and Erica was like the little devilish figure, drawing him back to old habits and trying to make him keep trying to be American).

I think this story has a lot to say about identity and how we perceive ourselves. What Changez went through was a lot like mine and Chaz’ abroad experiences. We both struggled to fit in. We tried to alter our clothing to seem more authentic and we adjusted our accents to sound more local, but when it came down to it, we were both just American students, studying abroad. For Changez, no matter how hard he tried, he was bound to return home to the places he belonged.

So what does this say for Charlie and me? Was there any value in our European travels? Were our efforts of cultural acceptance futile? I think not! I think our experiences taught us a lot about ourselves and gave us the opportunity to see what it was like to be one of them (or at least try). I can only speak for myself, but I think my experience abroad made me proud of my identity. As much as I wanted to fit in, I did not hope to compromise my own identity to do so. And yes, I sighed a big breath of relief when stepped foot back in American and again felt like I was an “us” again. There is definitely something to be said for the comforting feeling of being home.

I guess Dorthy did know what she was talking about....

the day Jim became Marcus

We’ve talked about identity quite a bit, but today something really weird happened. Jim told us that his real name is Marcus. WHATT?? Why would you have people call you Jim if your name is Marcus. Well, Jim (Marcus) explained that his middle name (Jim) came first on his American passport, and so that’s how his named appears on ACES. He said that it has just been easier to go by Jim.


This kind of changed my perception of how important a person’s name is to their identity. Whether he was called Jim or Marcus wasn’t really all that big of a difference, but it got me thinking. What if my name wasn’t Haley? What if Charlie’s name wasn’t Charlie. Would our personalities be different? Would we act differently? Do we identify ourselves based on the name that we are given?


This also made me think about when I was abroad and my Italian professor couldn’t pronounce my name. The H gave him such trouble. It was slightly amusing to hear him struggle each day. Ahh-Lee. He would call me. It was silly. But it was interesting in a way. The hard H of my name was something that so clearly marked me as American and made me wonder about Jim. Did going by Jim make him feel more American or did it make him feel like he was an outsider?


Also, while I’m on the topic of identity and abroad, since Chaz went on a whole long schpeel about his murce (man purse) and how it made him feel so in the French circle, I should probably tell you about my attempt to fit in while I was in Florence. I thought that the only way I was ever going to look, act and feel like a local was if I wore a leather jacket and a scarf. So, I set off on the journey to find la giacca di pelle perfetta. I searched long and hard, until I stumbled upon Massimo. I tried on probably every jacket in the store. It had to be perfect. It had to make me look Italian. Two hours later, I immerged from the store clad in leather, kissing Massimo on the left then the right cheek, “Ciao Ciao!” I said to him. And as I strolled through the leather market back to my apartment, I finally felt like I was one of them. I waved to the venders as I normally did, but this time they responded to me in Italian. I guess there are a lot of things that contribute to a person’s identity. For the Fiorentinas, the leather jacket meant I was one of them.


I guess for Marcus, going by Jim makes him one of us (Americans).