American-Hyphenated

"So, you're saying that if we, hypothetically, decided to move to New Zealand and I became a citizen there, I'd still have to pay taxes to the US on what I earned in another country?" I asked in total shock.

Jackson scrutinized his phone and re-read the BBC article again. "Yeah, I think that's what they're saying." He answered, looking up at me. "And if I get my citizenship here, I'll have to as well."

I fumed as I leaned back into the couch. Do other countries do that? Or just Amurricah?

Jackson glanced at his phone again before musing: "How many Americans have passports? According to the article over 1,100 people gave up their citizenship due to the new tax laws."

Huh? How can you be born here in the U.S., live somewhere else, then decide that legally you don't want to be a citizen anymore? My mind blew apart with the idea. "Give up your citizenship? Just like that!?" I cried. "I was born and raised here in New York. I am American to the marrow of my bones, and in this day and age, I can move to another country and renounce my citizenship!? What the very fuck!?" Crazy!

Jackson looked at me with amusement, then said "Guess how many U.S. citizens have a passport? 115 million!" I chewed over the idea. Only a third of Americans have their passport...

"How many New Zealanders have theirs?" I asked.

"75%." Jackson responded. "Oh! And there are more Americans living abroad than there are New Zealanders in the whole world." Jackson laughed. "6 million Americans are living abroad and 4.5 million New Zealanders exist."

My mind was still reeling. "I could give up American citizenship if I am a citizen of New Zealand. I could say: 'I am no longer an American.' Even though: I am no matter what. How? How does that work? That's like saying I am no longer a white woman. I am. I will always be, even if I lived in another country for 30 years, I'd still be an American!" Jackson nodded. You'll always be a New Zealander no matter what. I thought, looking at my boyfriend and then thinking back to the conversation I had the night before with a buddy of mine. We were walking and talking about accents.

"My girlfriend's sister has lived in London for years and has a bastardized American-British accent and as much as she denies she's taken on the local accent, she kinda' has. But, she'll never be a fully accented local, she'll always have her American-isms. Also like British-Mike. He's been here for years, but still talks with an English lilt." My friend said. "No matter what, you'll never be full-on local. You'd be American-hyphenated."

I'd be American-hyphenated no matter what I did with my passport. "More things to think about if we decided to move." I told Jackson. He nodded.

"It's amazing to me that we're still defining ourselves by country." He responded. "People move around so much and will continue to do so. The concept will start to make less and less sense. "

Yeah... what about all the dual citizen babies out there? All the kids that will be born in the next ten years. How many of them will be dual or tri-citizens? How do you define where they are from!? That's an interesting idea. Maybe the concept of country vs. country will start to dissolve in the next few generations. I mean, Europe is already doing it. There are certain rules that the EU as a whole must abide by and there are still separate countries with separate rules, but the EU passport gets you mobility anywhere there. Why shouldn't the international community eventually adopt that idea? In which case, I guess the idea of taxes might be more universal? Or maybe more of a fair ideal? Who knows.

"Right you are." I said with as much of a New Zealand inflection as I could.

Help Desk

Hi. Can I help you?

Yeah. I'm looking for a clue.

Ok, we have a variety of those. Is there a genre you're interested in?

Um. I was leaning toward Grad School?

Ah! School Advice. That's a popular one. We have:
"Should I Go to School? Vol. 1-15"
"Liberal Arts Grad School and You: Advice on How to Get Poor Quick"
"Delaying Real Life For a Degree."
"My Parents Hate That I'm an Actor"
and "I Don't Know What Else To Do So I'm Gonna Go To School... Again." Do any of these titles work for you?

Yes. Actually. The "I Don't Know What Else To Do So I'm Gonna Go To School... Again." sounds like my cup of tea.

Ok. Just be forewarned: it's a how-to guide, not a "10 Commandments" kind of book.

Yeah, I just need a guide? I'm looking for a clue, not an answer.

Ok, great. Then I think this book will work for you. May I ask, what Graduate school program were you thinking?

An MFA in Creative Non-Fiction.

Oh, interesting! I think you'd do well with that.

You do? What gives you that impression?

You look like you have a lot on your mind. You look smart. Your family values education, and your boyfriend already has a second degree, no?

How do you know?

You also write a lot, a blog, and you read a lot, and I'll bet you constantly say to yourself: "I could have written that better."

...Yes. I do.

Don't get me wrong, but I think this is a bit of a no-brainer.

Like, you're saying I should go to grad school and get an MFA in writing? And spend 2 more years in New York City and take on debt for a seemingly innocuous degree?

You used the word "Innocuous" in that last sentence: I think that says it all. You've got talent that your mother says you've possessed since you first learned to put pencil to paper. You'll thrive with the training.

But, this book? This'll help me get a clue, right?

I don't think you need a clue, Natalie.

Who are you?! How do you know this about me?

I'm just the lady behind the Help Desk counter of your sub-conscious, Natalie. I've always been here, and always will. You can take the book if you want, but I don't think there's anything in there you don't already know.

Wow. Thanks. I'll... Give this some real thought.

Okay! Come back if you need more advice or more clues!

Well, actually? Since I'm here... I was looking for a clue about long-term international relationships with members of the opposite sex.

Great! I have a bunch of those... looks like you could use a few.

How to Move in

The 10 step guide: How to Move in to Your New Place.

Step 1:

FREAK OUT!

Step 2:

Calm yourself. Take some deep breaths. Call your mother.

Step 3:

Have Mom and some friends over and watch, in a slight stupor, as they pick up your life and move it somewhere else.

Step 4:

Go on vacation with a friend for a week and a half. Forget about how upside down everything is for a while.

Step 5:

Go back to your new address from your break and FREAK OUT.

Step 6:

Do some thumb sucking, slink around pulling on your baby blanket, and then start throwing stuff out.

Step 7:

Begin unpacking. Wipe down furniture. Move couches around. Drill holes to hang pictures.

Step 8:

Tell yourself: "This is my new home." And repeat.

Step 9:

Spread the word! The new place is wonderful and you all should come see it! (When it's finished...)

Step 10:

Come back after a long shift at work, trip on your own pair of shoes that you left by the door, then sigh with relief when you lie down in what now feels like your own bed.

This is what home feels like.

Seattle

We stood on the pier and watched how the clouds hugged the mountains in the distance. The grey sky hung low, giving the impression that the sun had disappeared and gone somewhere far away to shine on smiling faces. I felt gloomy. The grey bay looked cold, the seagulls looked tired, the dark green of the firs stood in silent witness, and I wanted to leave. I leaned over the side of the damp stone wall and stared at the horizon knowing somewhere the sunset must be having a brilliant show that I couldn't see. I looked over at my friend, Jen, who also looked somewhat forlorn. Day 7 of our West Coast trip had landed us on the edge of Seattle with nothing but clouds to greet us. I shivered, feeling autumn prematurely and thinking of how warm a sun ripened apple, fresh off a tree, would feel compared to this.

There were a flock of birds twisting around the sky above our heads, their choreography simple and beautiful as they swooped in and out of formation. I watched them for a while, letting my mind wander.  I thought of how this trip may be the last one I take as a single unit, thinking to the plans I have in the future with my boyfriend. I thought of the friends I have back home I haven't seen in a while and wondered how they were. I thought of my family and how I was here without them. To my left a ferris wheel circled, its slow and steady movement a metaphor for a clock that reminded me of how much older I felt despite only turning 26 a few days ago.

Then, as if Jesus Christ stood up suddenly from the earth, the clouds ripped open over the ridge of the mountain peaks and a crack of the brightest orange-pink I had ever seen shot toward me. The entire horizon erupted into a golden pink, the like I had never seen before. The grays and blues of the bay were transformed and I was standing at what looked like the entrance to Candy Land. There were big blobs of whipped cream clouds, frothy dollops of ice cream covered with strawberry glaze, mounds of chocolate, sticks of peppermint, and a healthy dose of melted caramel. I jumped up and down and pointed. "Look! Look at the sun!" Excitedly, I raised my phone up to my eyes to capture the wonder (because who would believe I found the entrance to Candy Land?) and my phone squinted its eyes and said it couldn't take a photo.

I looked over at Jen who was having the same argument with her camera. She looked at me and sighed.  "There's no way we can capture that on these." She said. I nodded. I smiled, the sun changing the face of the entire world. We both looked out again at the blazing spectacle and stood there until the pinks began to turn purple. I looked up at the birds again, still busily swooping around. The air felt wet and chilly again. I hugged my arms for warmth.

"Lets go back to the Hotel." I suggested, looking back at Jen. She nodded and we turned to leave the waterfront. I wish I knew a better way to capture Seattle, I thought as we climbed up a flight of steps to street level. On the way back to hotel, I looked at the people on the street and then realized they all must have had a small glimpse of the beauty we saw to use as succor when the nights are cold, damp and gray. Huh, cool. I thought. But, I can't wait to get back to a place that has more sun than that.

The Blast-Off to Mugu Beach

People are walking fast, then slow, then there are tourists who don’t seem to be walking at all. The buildings that surround the street like a canyon are all flashing bright signs that move and wiggle causing even the most dedicated foot watcher to look up every so often in the anticipation of some pepsi can falling on their head. Looking down 7th avenue, the giant buildings crowd themselves to the sides of the street for what looks like miles, giving the impression that my tiny body is as significant and fragile as an ant; passing along like the other ants in a desperate rush for food, water, and a place to shit. 

There are moments, however, that I look up at the sky instead of the din of mid-town and see the sunset. The bright gold of the sun splashing across the windows and glinting its way down to street level. The light is so bright, that even the neon billboards are paled in comparison: muted in a reverence to the holy light of nature. The sky becomes purple, pink, crimson, and orange; and the dark spires of the tall sky-scrapers are lit up by the spectacle, looking more like a work of art by contrast than the scary spikes of a pig pen. 

It is in these moments that I wish I could somehow plant jet packs to the bottom of my feet and blast off of the face of the earth and follow the sun. I imagine myself pushing a button and growing the jet packs, then looking around in distaste at all that is around me, before crouching into a jump position and, within seconds, I’m atmosphere bound. The earth would fall away from my feet like I was scrolling off a page in google earth. I’d watch as where I had once been becomes small and the sun rises from the horizon to greet me, and then I’d turn west. 

Last night I sat on Mugu beach outside Los Angeles and congratulated myself on a job well done. The earth had fallen away that day and I had left New York in perfect timing to see the sun rise over Manhattan, then set over the endless Pacific. Sitting still to the sound of the rocks being raked against the sand, the wet air from the ocean spray had made me chilly, so I was wrapped in a towel snacking on raw carrots and sugar snap peas and wondering how I got so lucky. 

Miley Cyrus

My jaw dropped. Out came Miley, slinking her way down a giant teddy bear, wearing a one piece teddy-tard (instead of leotard) with a bear's face that looked like he'd just swallowed acid and was tripping balls. Miley didn't look too far behind, wagging tongue and rolling her eyes as she bounced around on stage at the MTV Video Music Awads (VMA's) screaming: "Let me hear you make some noise!" I wanted to make noise, but couldn't find words to express the sickening feeling in my gut.

What must have been millions of dollars, months of work, hundreds of people coordinating, and years of talent and experience (I'm talking the back-up dancers and stage managers who managed to pull this off) seemed to fizzle into the obnoxious gyrating of a buttless, entitled, 20 year old. I felt totally sorry for the people who were paid vast sums of money (yet not nearly as much as Miley must have gotten) who were there to witness the tacky and tasteless spectacle of a song-we've-already-heard-a-million-times get played yet again by a now even more naked Miley who ripped off the weird teddy-tard and opted for a tight, gold, spandex, bathing suit.

Then: as if the performance couldn't get more ridiculously stupid, another artist came on in a 70's style black and white suit, singing out of key, only to have the now nearly naked Cyrus bend over and rub her tiny butt on his balls. Oh yeah: fluffy, forgettable, entertainment at its styrofoam peak.

I stared at the screen long after the clip was done, wondering what I should think about all of what I just saw. My feminist side was screaming: "That just set us back by 20 years!"

My intellectual side screamed: "That whole thing said nothing but a 'big booty-big booty' song and a back-with-buns white chick just humped a man twice her age; where's the originality!?"

My young, 20-something side said: "Can't wait to see how Buzz-Feed will rip her a new asshole for that piece of hot, steamy trash"

More than anything, though, I felt deeply confused. Every year we've got songs, movies, ads and messages passed around about how to promote education, equality, respect for other humans, etc. Then, as if hurling a massive hot turd in the face of all of that, a Disney created princess (Miley Cyrus was originally a teeny-bopper 'you-go-girl!' chick back in the early 2000's) turns into a bleached, garlic-knot-haired, sex fiend whose sole purpose is to suck on the balls of trashy pop and give clearly misguided advice to young women about how to dance with the guy singing badly behind you while performing at a concert.

Did she win, however? She got me riled enough to write a post about her crotch-grabbingly bad performance. Isn't that the point, after all? Bad press is still good press, when you need views and can get people watching. And talent doesn't have to be present in the performer: all the hundreds of people it took to make Miley the lead are the real winners, having created a show so bad it'll be talked about for weeks; maybe even making its debut in a SNL sketch.

I just hope, sincerely, that my generation can watch something that atrocious and think: "Hilarious! Stupid! Can't wait to make fun of that hot bag of garbage!"

Instead of: "Where can I get a gold bikini like that? And that guy need to get his tiny penis right in between my sweet buns."

Gross.

Hand Written

He slid the note across the bar, then looked up at me. I picked up the small piece of paper and squinted in the dark.

"The people in this room are putting me in a bad mood. :( " The note said.

I smiled and nodded my understanding back at him. I pulled out my pen and shot back: "Tell me about it. There are some tables tonight that are SO annoying!" By the time I finished writing, he had walked away to deal with a problem with the sound board, so I left the piece of paper on his clip-board and walked away, my words clinging in perpetuity to the small yellow note. I felt a little nervous about the ink laying open to any eyes. Rarely now do I long hand anything I mean to show... and to see my hand writing with the incriminating evidence of my dislike of the people I was serving, laying out on the table like a naked person, made me anxious. My co-worker walked back over to the note, glanced at it, smiled, then crumpled it up and threw it out.

Message: Deleted.

Hand written words are rarer than ever, now. I look at the words I write in my journal and marvel at their uniqueness, each day being different. When looking at handwritten letters, I can glean a certain mood from the person who wrote the words down, like their DNA is also resting in the shape of the letter "Y" they wrote or that the way they spelled my name is an indication of their hope.

As if someone planned the evening with the subject: "Special Letters To You", I got home and my boyfriend, Jackson, had a piece of mail waiting with both of our names on it. It was from New Zealand, where his family lives. "I didn't open it because it has both our names on it." He stated. "I think it's from my parents."

"You open it." I said, when he handed the mail to me.

He tore open the envelope and revealed a hand written letter, penned by his mother. He read aloud. I stared at the words. This was such a treat! She took time to physically manifest her ideas to us. This letter took time to fly across the oceans and land here, in our bedroom, in New York City. The letter was very sweet, she mentioned how excited she was to meet me when I go visit in December, and wished us the best with the move. I touched the paper she had touched and felt like I knew her more than I thought I had when we met over Skype, for the first time, a few weeks ago.

Jackson held out the note and studied it. "We'll need to keep this." He said.

"Save it for an album!" I exclaimed, excited to have a physical piece of evidence to show someone, someday. I thought of all the electronic mementos I have and wondered how to make them special while still trapped inside a screen. "We'll need to write her back." I  mused, already imagining what my signature would look like on the note, and wondering how long it would take to get back to New Zealand and what I would say. Times New Roman font wouldn't be able to mask my right hand, and spell check wouldn't be able to keep me on top of the grammatical errors I am sure to have.

The instant message I got earlier in the evening rang in my ears, and I suddenly wished I could have saved that note: a perfectly honest opinion of what the current event was, gone forever; no auto-save, no pictures, yet more of an impact than any text or whisper.