Tom-ay-to/Tom-ah-to

Emigration Diary: Tom-ay-to/Tom-ah-to

Posted January 23, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

We’ve passed the six month mark in the US. It’s really starting to feel like home now. It struck me as I made plans with a friend to go camping that I would still be here in the summer. I’m not here temporarily on vacation like I’ve always been before. I have no flights to arrange to organize the trip. We simply have to choose the dates and pick a park and drive there. It’s also pretty much guaranteed that we’ll get at least some good weather if we do.
It’s hard to imagine the heat of the summer when it is as bracingly cold outside as it is at the moment. I really need to change my phone and my inner thermometer from Celsius to Fahrenheit. I really scared a coffee shop barista when I said it was below zero outside. These are the things I struggle most with. I miss the metric system. I am still unable to estimate how far a mile is; figure out what height my children are or how much weight I put on over Christmas. Some of these issues are more problematic than others. I still get confused about how to write the date every single time I have to. I figure it out, rather morbidly, by thinking of 9/11.

Baysil is an ‘erb.

I am getting to grips with pronunciation and spelling though. I have dropped the ‘u’s from colour, favour and neighbour, ’ized’ most of my ‘ises’ and lost the double ‘l’ from jewellery and travelling. None of that hurt a bit. I can say ‘Baysil is an ‘erb’ with barely a smirk now and I didn’t bat an eyelid when I was asked for an ah-pricot sour the other day. I’m still not entirely clear what exactly I’m supposed to call my handbag. Is it a purse or a pocketbook and if it’s the former, what do I call my purse? My kids correct me constantly for calling underwear ‘pants’ and pants ‘trousers’. I’ve reluctantly started referring to the press as a closet and I avoid speaking the number thirty three in public entirely because of its evil ‘th’ qualities.
We have settled in to the community pretty well. The boys have regular playdates with their schoolmates. There are usually quite a few familiar faces if we walk into a local bar. We know who the most efficient cashiers at the supermarket are. I have someone I return to for eyebrow maintenance and we know which stores stock George’s favourite beer. I think the fact that I’ve been working in the restaurant has helped this transition enormously. Not only have I made friends there who invite me places socially but I have a selection of people to ask about the little cultural things I’m unsure of. How many school fundraiser items am I expected to buy or sell to be considered a good parent? (At least $100 worth.) Am I supposed to give the school bus drivers a Christmas tip? (Yes.) What the hell is an Arnold Palmer? (Half iced tea half lemonade.)
A big test of cultural familiarity is coming up on February 3rd with Super Bowl Sunday. It seems attendance at a party is compulsory. I haven’t a clue though. I’ve half watched a few games but I can’t for the life of me figure out the rules. I even find it difficult to remember what teams play which sports for what states. There’s nothing new there though, I’ve never really followed any sports, I was pretty much as clueless about the European Cup last year. I guess I’ll just do what I usually do and wing it. Smile when everyone cheers and try not to clap when people look devastated. Here, of course, the wings come with buffalo sauce. Bring it on. I have no problem relating to these or the nachos at all.

Out with the Old

Emigration Diary: Out with the Old

Posted January 9, 2013 by Jenny Foxe in Ramp Specials

I can’t think of another annual chore I do with as much pleasure as the tearing down of the Christmas tree. Despite the merriment it went up with and how lovely Christmas was, I find comfort in reclaiming the corner it occupied and replacing the gaudy fairy lights with an unassuming lamp. I don’t see bareness where the Christmas cards stood, I see lack of clutter and I feel renewed and eager to get started.
How many times have I spoken about getting started though? When we moved here first in July, when the kids started school in September, after we recovered from the storm in November and now again in January because it’s the New Year. So we’ve been here six months and I still feel that I haven’t yet begun. What exactly is it that I feel has to start?
The answer is nothing. One great big moment of life changing epiphany is never going to happen. No fireworks or fanfare is scheduled to proclaim ‘Welcome to Your New Life!’ but slowly and surely things are getting done. George has a job he’s happy in for the most part. The kids are settled in school, have made friends and are getting good reports. I have a job I enjoy although I still want to get a better one. I’ve organised health insurance, doctors and dentists for everyone, I have a regular shopping list and I’ve got my New York driving license. I’ve even made some new friends myself. Our everyday routine is actually fairly similar to what it was in Ireland. It’s almost like we didn’t start a new life at all but simply moved our old lives to a new country.
We have a recording of our five year old last Christmas singing songs by the Christmas Tree. He was only four then and still had a babyish look about him. It was only watching it this year I noticed what a strong North Dublin accent he had. We recorded him singing the same songs this year and the Dub is mostly gone. He no longer pronounces ‘right’ as ‘roitsh’. Now it’s ‘riyte’. This doesn’t upset me in the least. When mine talk among other children their Irish accents are still perceptible. I wonder for how much longer. I’m working on building up the courage to record myself to see if my accent is changing at all. I can tell it hasn’t disappeared completely because it’s commented on so often, you know, by ‘Irish’ people.

My accent is quite the conversation starter in the restaurant where I work. Sometimes I feel like I should be getting commission from Bord Fáilte.

In fact, my accent is quite the conversation starter in the restaurant where I work. Many customers would love to visit or revisit Ireland. There was a point on New Year’s Eve when I stood discussing the merits of various Irish golf courses I’d never set foot in while precariously balancing a stack of dirty glasses on a tray. Sometimes I feel like I should be getting commission from Bord Fáilte.
I mentioned The Gathering to a few people who expressed interest in making the trip. ‘Well, if you’re going to go, 2013 is the year to do it! The whole year is to be a celebration welcoming home Irish emigrants of all generations’. That’s where I ran out of steam though. It would be nice if I had some incentive to throw in: ‘There are discounts on all the historical sites and museums.’ No. ‘There are deals on hire cars or bus tours if you mention the words The Gathering’ Not at all. ‘There are special hotel room rates if you produce a postcard invitation.’ None of that. So, instead, when I was asked what the point of The Gathering is I had to answer humbly but honestly ‘Oh, I guess they’re trying to increase tourism, get people to spend money, improve the economy’ Which led to the same old conversation about negative equity, ghost estates, NAMA and run down shopping malls and with that the notion of romantic Ireland was dead and gone to me. Again.
I have actually been invited home to visit this year. I don’t think I can go though. There are many people I’d really love to see but I’d prefer if they’d all come here instead. I’m just not ready to go back yet. I’m not sure what exactly it is that I’m afraid of but the feeling of apprehension I get when I think of setting foot on Irish soil is similar to that of an impending 20 year school reunion. What is that I wonder? Perhaps it’s just that to me, with the unceremonious tossing out of the tree, the symbol of celebration of the end of the old year, 2012, the year emblazoned on every single form of acceptable ID I now possess, it’s a time to keep moving forward. Now is not the time to revisit and reminisce because the future path is still too unclear. I can’t look back yet because for now, while it’s foggy and uphill, I’ve got to keep looking where I’m going. At least, with the Christmas clutter cleared, I’m not stepping on pine needles on my way.