Go Back To Where You Came From

“Go back to where you were born.”

 That’s one of those cliché statements you’ve probably heard countless times. If you’re lucky, like I suppose I am really, it’s mostly from within the mouths of racists in fictional books and TV shows, maybe on the news too. It’s often followed by a defiant “Um, excuse me, I was born here actually”, ending up with Ignorant Racist giving Defiant Victim a withering look, and sodding off to bother some other poor immigrant, thus making a point that racism is bad and, in fact, just comes from ignorance.

 I’m lucky, really. I’m white. I’ve never really experienced racism, or even snide remarks. Growing up bilingual never meant anything to me except being able to understand more people, and later skive my way through language exams which were always easy for me.

 It’s only recently that I’ve been forced to think more about my nationality, and what being an immigrant really means. That’s partly because of everything that’s happening between Britain and the EU at the moment, of course, but also because of the new experiences I’ve had with my own life.

 See, mine’s kind of a weird situation. I’ve lived in Scotland since I was a baby. Went to nursery there, grew up there, lived in the same house from when I was three until I left high school in August. For as long as I can remember, and before that, it’s been my home.

But I’m not Scottish. Not by heritage, not by birth. Technically, I suppose, I’m an immigrant. And I have a German passport and birth certificate to prove it.

 And, I suppose, that’s partly why I decided to spend my gap year working in Germany, in the very city where I was born. I was curious; I’d never lived there, beyond the four months between birth and moving to Britain. I’d only ever seen the city during the summer, when my family would usually spend about a week there each year. I wanted to find out more about it.

 Applying for the gap year was my first hurdle, of course. Application forms and interviews are scary enough on their own, let alone in a language I only really spoke to my Mum. I was used to basic vocabulary, but I quickly realised I knew next to nothing about the formal tone and sophisticated words that came with the adult world. How would I? I’d never been to school in Germany, never even officially learnt to read and write. The only person I spoke to in the language on a regular basis was my Mum; even the differences such as “Sie” and “Du” seemed strange.

 Once the agency I was applying through established that I had no family living in the city where I’d be working, they quickly suggested I apply through the international programme. International gap year students were given extra support at the beginning, and more help and information with things like bank accounts and health insurance. Obviously, that made more sense to me.

 It was only when I started the gap year, though, that I realised how much of a foreigner I really was. Most of the other international people could speak next to perfect German, along with fluent English, and their own languages. I’d always thought I was lucky, knowing two languages from birth; but the English language is such a large part of the world now, it feels like it’s almost taken for granted, in the more educated areas anyway. My German clearly wasn’t of much value either, compared to people who’d grown up speaking their native language.

 And it was more of that; any Germans I met immediately knew that I was British. To this day I can still only pronounce my “r”s, and “ch”s, in the English way; people would be surprised at how good my German was, assuming that I’d learnt the language at school. I even got told once that I looked British, from the way I was dressed.

 In the nursery where I was volunteering, the kids would often struggle to understand what I was saying, especially at the beginning – sometimes they thought I was speaking a different language entirely, and I’d have to explain that I was speaking German, I just had a weird accent, because I was from a different country. I remember one 4-year-old blocking my path once, and telling me that she didn’t like me because I wasn’t from here. I felt like I should explain that, actually, I’d been born here – I’d just never lived her – but unsurprisingly, that really confused her.

 Most of all, though, it was the culture that didn’t make sense to me. The style of clothes, the rap music that everyone my age listens to, the fact that shops were closed on Sundays and the whole German population seem to wake up about an hour earlier than Britain. I’d find myself listening to bad Scottish folk music, dreaming of Irn Bru and Blu Tack and multi-pack crisps.

 Half a year later, I’m enjoying my gap year. But the longer I’ve been here, the more I’ve known, with complete conviction, that Germany isn’t my home. No matter how long I stay here, I’ll always be the British girl. I’ll always be the one who doesn’t come from here.

 But at the same time, when I finally come home, it will be just as Britain is leaving the EU. Just as people start scrutinising my German passport for slightly longer at the airport; just as people start taking notice of my date of birth.

 More than ever, I’m finding myself torn between those two sides; that 4-year-old girl at my nursery, putting it bluntly; “I don’t like you, because you’re not from here, and I can’t understand your language. My brother, putting it even more bluntly; “You were born in Germany, you live in Germany. You’re German.”

 I’m still not sure where I fit in between those two statements, those two countries. Throughout my whole childhood, that never mattered. But I have a feeling that the older I get, the more it’s going to.

 And if someone does tell me, one day, to “go back to where I came from”, I have no idea what country they’ll be telling me from. And even less of an idea where I’ll go.

 I’m white; I’ve never experienced racism; I’m one of the very, very lucky ones. I’ve lived in the same country my entire life, bar a few months. So why does it suddenly feel like I don’t belong anywhere?