I reckon that in the last month or so I have both lost several brain cells and fashioned new chambers in my mind for coping with a rolling course of geographical displacement -- or, more optimistically, honing the art of feeling at home in rapidly changing circumstances. Having returned to Hampton, Virginia in the wake of a visa fiasco and in anticipation of my younger brother's military commissioning / graduation / wedding (congrats! ... we in the Weaver family rarely live without adventure), I spent about two months making sweeping life decisions and planning the perfect small wedding (should homeland security grant me my scheduling wishes).
In June I returned to Nigeria for about one month that would be crammed full of final research goals and the orchestrating of an event that had been my father's idea: an engagement party to celebrate our relationship with Nigeria-based friends and family. Eze's logistics talents were put to the test as we worked on a tight budget to create a party for a target of 50 guests. In the end, in typical Nigerian fashion, about 100 turned up. But there was food and drink for all (just:), and the party was a great success.
It took place on June 21st, which was, incidentally, the Summer Solstice. This sun-worshipping Pagan holiday is not particularly meaningful on the African equator, and it was only due to the astronomical interests of Doc (our Sierra Leonian uncle by communal adoption, and the party's host) that we knew of the auspicious date at all. It meant that the sun set a wee bit later that night than usual (around 8pm), which made for a delightfully late-night (in Nija terms) affair. We and the last guests wrapped it up at around 10pm.
Highlights of the party included: our cute matching ankara (name for a dyeing style) outfits; the food! (wonderful moin-moin bean cakes made my Eze's mum and neighborhood friends, bountiful plates of chicken and jollof rice, freshly roasted suya and chicken barbecue); the spraying (being showered with money while getting down to Nija hip-hop) and the fact that I was a better dancer than Eze on the day -- which was probably due to his level of party planning exhaustion rather than my sense of rhythm -- but whatever the reason I enjoyed the kudos. Eze's parents looked splendid: Momsy in a special wrapper we bought her for the day (wrappers are a big deal in traditional Igbo culture, and the giving of one is a must for a new daughter-in-law), Popsy in his traditional regalia offering Igbo kola nuts and snacks of tiny raw garden eggs (eggplants) to the men at his Igbo-only table. I took the opportunity to present my new parents with a seascape painted by my mum, after which I called the States and both sets of parents had their first chance to chat on the phone. At party's end Eze's folks informed me, in a tone that was both playful and earnest, that henceforth I would belong to their family and become a visitor in my own home. Even before the wedding-to-be, I had become their Iyawo (wife). (Of course in Nigeria it's common to refer even to a casual coupling of boyfriend and gilfriend as 'husband' and 'wife').
Just a few days later and I was on a plane to England. Spent about two relaxing days with friends in Bournemouth on the southern coast. Having just bought a 100 year-old fixer-upper home with a magical wild garden, they were full steam ahead on the repairs and my visit helped to instigate a bit of resting for everyone. Then a bus ride up to Scotland and a week of alternately sifting through and dragging about stuff, and saying goodbye to a place I have for some time thought of as 'home.' I will certainly be back to visit Scotland as much as I can, but its homeland status in my heart has necessarily shifted. Better to live on two continents than three :)
And then... flying back to the U.S.A.
I have continued to come 'home' to visit in the 5 years since I graduated from Yale and travelled to England to study. But the feeling of returning to re-settle is decidedly different. A week in Glasgow had brought the Scottish inflection back into my accent, and I enjoyed the transient experience of striking up conversation with many friendly Americans who asked me questions and then wrapped up the exchange with the decidedly welcome and privately entertaining benediction: Hope you enjoy your stay in my country. Perhaps Eze's folks are prophets, for I do feel a visitor -- or perhaps immigrant -- status as I return to the land of my birth. On my flight out of Chicago and back to Virginia I count the number of years I have lived 'overseas' in my life. 12. Very nearly half my life 'away'. My Bournemouth-based buddy -- also born in the U.S. but now well nested in the UK, sent me a bon voyage email in which he wondered what 'America' would mean to me as I made the crossing 'back'. All these years I have called the place The States -- partly through a desire for precision, and partly out of respect for the Canadians and Latin Americans who also exist. But on this journey I say I am going to America. The word conjures all sorts of magic in my imagination. America is, despite everything, still a place that beckons one to bring her dreams, a place to make a new beginning, in my case a beginning with a man who will be an immigrant in a land I know as much from without (as either exile or ambassador) as from within. I feel as I walk the Norfolk exit ramp that I do wish, I do choose to be(come) 'American' and all the magical contradictions the identity signifies, but I also know that I have some power in determining -- in practicing -- what that will mean.
