Mo Conversations

Dear Readers,

(Side bar: after a mere week of blogging I feel I can confidently start addressing my readers as such. I am sure, no, I’d even go so far as to say I’m positive, I have some regular followers out there. The fact that these followers are, for the moment, all family is neither here nor there :) )

So then, dear readers! I’ve been in the States for almost 14 years now. In all that time I haven’t, for the most part, wanted to become a US citizen. Part of it was due to the fact that it wasn’t an option for a long time. Those that were born here often have no idea how downright tough it is to become a US citizen. But really, the more compelling reason was choice: I just didn’t want to become “an American”. No, no! You Americans out there shouldn’t get your feathers ruffled, it wasn’t personal! The truth of the matter is that when I 1st came here it was to go to school. My goal was to get a great education then return home to make a difference in my country, Zimbabwe (which my family affectionately calls “Zim”). I figured the States had more than enough educated people here to make a difference. Zim was where I was needed, where I could make count. So I went to school.

But as I was in college, things were getting worse in Zim. The political situation deteriorated, as did the economy. At a time when I was thinking of going back my family was making loud and persistent noises about me staying here, as that would help the family the most. It was always understood that, in a family of 7 children, we all had to do our share to keep the family afloat. "After all," said one of my sisters, "you’re naïve to think that people will just welcome you back like you’re some kind of savior."

Hmm, hadn’t thought of that, believe it or not! And suddenly the idea of trying to help people who didn’t want my input suddenly became unappealing. At 23, my romantic notions of changing the world did not include having to argue and fight with the very people I wanted to help. In hind sight, I was quite naïve, indeed.

My other sister had another equally chilling reality to point out to me:

"Unemployment and inflation are both very high at the moment, and we are struggling to make ends meet. Can’t you stay there, work, and help us out? The US$ you are sending make it more manageable. It doesn’t make much sense to come here and join the many who are unemployed…"

Ah yes, the beauty of having so many siblings!

But again, I was given pause. As I hemmed and hawed and tried to figure out where I wanted to end up, I kept going to school. At the end of another 2 years I had my Master’s degree. While fighting constant feelings of guilt ("why am I still here? Shouldn’t I have tried harder to go back? Others have done it") I got a job on the East Coast. A friend offered to travel there with me, and voila, Scott re-entered my life as the leading male star (we were just friends before.) To cut an interesting tale short, we got married in Delaware, and decided to move back to Oregon. Which is how I came to be here for 12 years.

But I began this entry by saying that I’d been in the States for 14 years, so the math geniuses amongst you might be wondering what happened to the other 2 years. Nothing, really - Scott and I lived our life. We had always, and do still, talked about moving to Zim. But each time Scott suggests we go to live there for a year or so, I find myself hard-pressed to agree. I see no nobility in going back only to be hungry like my mother and sister (the only ones of my family still in Zim) are. Even though I think very fondly of Zim, I am not eager to go back and be part of the problem. While the idea of a struggle is often romantic to so many of us, I am often reminded of something I heard someone once say (and I’m paraphrasing here): many people think it is wonderful to be Mandela-like. Think about it, 27 years he gave up. Think of the time he missed with his kids, the days he sacrificed with his family. There must have been days when he would gladly have turned his back on the struggle, if only to be with his family.
So, Scott and I remained in Portland, and continued about our merry way. By then we’d been married for 5 years. Then, last year we had our son, Zenzo. I have much to say about the lessons I’ve learned as a new parent, but I shall save those for another blog. But it was in having Zenzo that I began to question what my nationality meant. If I cling to my Zim passport, am I more Zimbabwean because of that? The mental gymnastics I as experiencing were aggravated by the fact that if I chose to become an American citizen I would be required to give up my Zimbabwean citizenship (the current Zim government does not recognize dual citizenship.)

After a struggle, I have come to the realization that, having come to the States when I was just 18 I am now a hybrid. I am no longer purely Zimbabwean, nor am I 100% American. And so, with that, came the realization that I am “Citizen Mo”. No matter what my passport says, I am a citizen of the world. And for today, that is enough. So what did I decide to do, ultimately? Yet another blog entry for another day…