I’ve returned to the UK for the weekend. Partly to see my parents. Partly because I couldn’t change my train ticket.
It is quite novel being back. This is the land of my birth after all. But I’ve been away for long enough now that it isn’t really my home, and I was always a bit too weird and ineligible to really fit in a whole lot anyway. I’ve lost contact with school friends and pretty much most university friends too.
Still, it does mark a difference from Belgium. At least here, I can speak English with a native accent without totally confusing people. Oh, and the far right are more likely to appeal at people like me rather than calling me the enemy.
Reform was voted into my parent’s local council. I don’t quite understand how that happened in an area with an increasing amount of wealthy South Asians, but then I don’t really understand humans anyway. I guess it’s a ‘kick the ladder down after climbing it’ situation. Isn’t it great to be back home?
If there is one place where I’m somewhat legible, it does seem like London. East London is the one place in the whole world where I once had the feeling of what it was like to be in the majority. A shopping street designed and built for migrant, South Asian culture. Granted, I knew deep down I don’t quite fit in there either, but at least that isn’t so visible from the outside. Walking around the streets, having people treat me well, I guess this is what privilege feels like.
It does make for a nice change compared to Brussels I suppose. The skin colour difference feels far more stark there. I’m not from the maghreb, nor am I black or Latin American. People don’t really know how to react to me, so they often don’t. I only confuse people further when they learn that I am British. After all, British people are meant to be white, and migrants are meant to be uneducated.
It’s like how I once saw a job advert asking for native English (which by the way, is a ridiculous job requirement) but because my name looks too foreign I would never get considered. Out of curiosity, I checked the organisation. It is filled with white folk who whilst no doubt are very good at English, aren’t native speakers..
Some days I wish I worked in IT because then at least people would have some sort of cultural reference proximity of the Indian IT support guy. I mean, I’m not actually Indian, but at least Indians who work in IT get thought of as competent at it. Maybe then I could dare to have a career with a sense of progression. Although I imagine in practice that rarely happens either.
My sense of alienation is also probably not helped by the fact that my social status has gone down the pan. I went from being one of those successful EU bubble sorts with a job that thousands of trainees would dream of. Now, I’m a burnt out neurodivergent weirdo that can’t handle a normal day of activities. Such a profile doesn’t tend to impress the power-hungry juggernauts that Brussels seems to attract.
At least I’m back with my parents. Here I can feel at home. And by at home, I mean within 30 minutes having a conversation with my dad where he tries to convince me to fly to Turkey and have gastric surgery. He even sold it as a holiday. Do some tourism, then get sliced up by a surgeon. They’d come too, it would make for some wholesome family time. He did helpfully also tell me that my attempts at any other intervention aren’t worth it because they don’t work. Good to know.
Still, I know that’s there way of showing affection. They’re really asking whether I’m doing okay, since as we all know asking directly is banned for migrant parents under international law. To be fair, it’s probably easier that way. I don’t feel like I would have a whole lot of success explaining burnout recovery to them anyway.
Still, it would have been nice if they asked about my wisdom teeth getting taken out, but to be fair it’s been a whole 9 days and only one of the four teeth was fused with the ligament. The dentist said it was only possible that I had a chance to lose my tongue sensations for a few months. All in all, pretty small fry.
Otherwise, the UK just feels like a sinking ship. The politics couldn’t really be going a whole lot worse. How Labour have done this badly is beyond any real comprehension. But not wanting to analyse British politics is why I left this country. I suppose the only crumb for comfort is that considering the worst is still yet to come, this current moment is relatively better.
The country is also doing its best to become as horrible a place as possible. Out of nowhere we’re back to legislating trans people out of toilets. Nothing exclaims tolerance like forcing the examination of genitalia for a basic need. Then again, obviously trans people deserve to be harrassed considering their audacity in daring to exist. It’s not like the exact same arguments (and lack of evidence) was used to keep blacks and Irish people outside of public spaces before.
Still, there are silver linings. At least here my love for cricket is recognised. Admittedly, this is usually recognised through a sense of expressed disdain at how boring it is to whever I say this too. But I guess that’s a slight improvement to the look of bafflement and confusion that I get in Belgium.
One of the benefits of getting an Autism assessment is that it helps make peace with being a weirdo. My conclusion has essentially been to give up. Not with everything – at least not quite yet. But with the attempt to be legible, basically anywhere. The fact I live in Brussels confuses most family members, and the idea of being a continental language learner equally perplexes the white folk. In Belgium, I stick out even more.
To be fair with people, I’m also confused about my existence. At least I have that in common with everyone else.