Welcome to Tuesday’s Traveller

This week please welcome Leah to Tuesday’s Traveller!

Identity Crisis

By: Leah Evans

I was thirty-four when I first became an expat. I was thirty-four with a brand new baby. I was thirty-four with a brand-new husband. I was strong, confident, and happy and I moved to Tbilisi, Georgia with enthusiasm, gusto, and a strong sense of self. I identified myself as a teacher, a runner, an artist. But, within weeks, as I sat by myself in my noisy and dusty home with my brand-new baby listening to the car mechanics that surrounded my house yell at each other in Russian, I slowly lost my sense of self.

Tbilisi, Georgia, is a tourist’s dream. Founded in the fifth century and wrapped around the banks of the Kura River, the colorful houses perched on the sides of the hills reach up to monumental churches and cathedrals. The lush countryside, ancient cave cities, and beaches of Batumi provide endless entertainment and adventure opportunities. The legendary hospitality of the Georgians plus their commitment to winemaking and culinary excellence means you will always be sated and welcome. But, as a newcomer I didn’t see that yet. I only saw my difficulties with traffic, with a difficult language I had trouble learning, and my own insecurities and inadequacies.

Because, it turned out I really wasn’t that confident after all. I ventured out to buy vegetables from the dusty road-side stands and walked to the end of the street and back without buying a thing, scared of using my few words of Russian, scared of looking foreign, scared of making a mistake. I asked my husband to order pizza for me when he came home. I would walk by the tiny storefronts with thick stone ovens leaking smells of heavenly khajapuri, a rich, creamy, cheese bread eaten at every meal, without buying anything simply because I didn’t know how to say “I would like to buy khajapuri.” I didn’t know how to convert or count out the money. I put my head down and rushed home for whatever I could find in our cabinets.

It also turned out I wasn’t really that independent. I couldn’t explain myself so I had to ask for help to pay bills, give an address to a taxi driver, and to buy groceries. My husband asked why I always bought so much garlic and I had to tell him I could only order by the kilo since I didn’t know how to say “half kilo” or “quarter kilo” and I was too embarrassed to ask or act it out. I wanted to go to the regular and busy playgroup full of dynamic and strong women but I didn’t know how to find a ride, navigate the streets, or make friends from around the world. I stayed at home with my newborn reading fairy tales and singing nursery rhymes. I was bored and lonely.

It turned out I wasn’t a runner either. The torn-up roads twisting up the side of the mountain didn’t intimidate me as much as the car mechanics sitting outside my garage and all the way up the street, watching and commenting on everyone that walked by. I couldn’t find my zone when I did run, that comfort-filled sense of feeling without thought, leaving the mind and entering the body. “They stare at you because women don’t exercise,” a Georgian friend told me but I knew that wasn’t true. I saw women running, some fast and beautifully, at the Hippodrome. Located near my house, the old horse track still saw occasional horses. A few beauties would gallop by me as I jogged on the outside track, nodding to men and women out for a run. It was my favorite place to run with the rare sight of green lawn in the center and surrounded by a canopy of lush trees. There, I was a runner, but because my daughter was young and I wasn’t comfortable using the jogging stroller in the lawless roads I usually ran through the neighborhood in the early morning darkness.

I wasn’t a teacher anymore. I was a stay-at-home mom, and a lonely one at that. I didn’t know anyone, didn’t know how to talk to anyone, and didn’t have the confidence to go out and ask for friendship. I didn’t know how to answer when people asked me what I did. When I said I was a stay-at-home mom, I watched eyes shift and interest wane. So, I stayed at home and wrote a book about my beloved dog. The one who had stayed behind on my parents’ farm. Lucky dog, I thought.

I certainly wasn’t an artist. Before leaving the US I had slowly started to build a business selling handmade pottery, bowls, mugs, plates, and vases in deep blues and verdant greens. I sold them at the bustling Eastern Market in Washington, D.C. and in summer craft shows around the region, making friends with other artists, with customers, finding my niche and my calling. But, pottery is a terrible hobby for an expat. Who can carry around all that weight? Where do you find the right clay, glazes, and tools? There were beautiful pots in Georgia but they were fired to a different temperature and used clay and glazes I wasn’t familiar with. I didn’t know how to relearn what I thought I already knew.

I was lost. I realized that identity can be based on our surroundings. Where we live and the people we choose to spend our time with can influence how we perceive ourselves. What if you change all of that all at once? Are we the same person or are we different? That is what expats go through, some repeatedly. Some do it without missing a beat and some, like me, lack grace in our transitions.

But, then, I slowly and steadily started to rebuild my identity. I found my confidence. I found myself in the tiny knick-knack store near my house. The short and stout grandmother seemed to have at least one of every possible item stacked on the shelves, on the floor, and under tables. Surely she had scotch tape, which I needed to wrap some presents. I hadn’t brought my dictionary, so I tried to explain what I wanted using my limited Russian language skills. When that was unsuccessful, I acted out using scotch tape to wrap presents, getting more and more dramatic and involved as I went. Finally, she laughed and whipped it out from under the counter. I felt such a rush of pride and satisfaction. I had successfully bought scotch tape without knowing the word for it! Of course, after I looked the word up and saw that in Russian you can just say “Scotch” and they will understand. Instead of feeling defeated, I laughed.

I found my independence. After studying Russian every morning for a few months I was strong enough to be able to communicate with the help of a trusted dictionary. I couldn’t communicate that much, but I could get my point across. I felt so happy when I ordered pizza all by myself for my husband’s upcoming birthday party. Located at the top of the hill, the pizzeria was reportedly run by the Vatican Embassy and they served incredible thin-crust pizza with amazing toppings including my favorite pie with blue cheese, figs, and caramelized onions. I felt so independent when I put in a complicated order for the party, adding and subtracting ingredients from my favorite selections. Not only could I order pizza but I could also pay my phone bill and read enough Russian to navigate street signs and follow directions so I could drive to whichever location I wanted. I started attending playgroups, outings, and dinner parties. I had found freedom.

I had been a teacher before moving to Georgia, and I had loved everything about my job. I missed it, but I also loved being a mother. My precious blonde, blue-eyed baby filled my heart every day. I loved talking to her, reading to her, and showing her the world. My husband and I would fight over who got to hold her, feed her, or put her to sleep. We were first-time parents in every sense of the word. But, it turned out I was still a teacher. I was asked to teach a high school course on American History and I jumped at the chance. The few hours a week with students, lessons, and activities were such a highlight. We ate brownies, read historical texts, and connected expat experiences with major concepts in our countries’ histories. The student who had lived in the Bahamas discussed what it must have been like for Columbus to land on the island of San Salvador. The student who had spent time in Japan talked about the impact of Hiroshima and Nagasaki on life there. And, of course, they all had so much to say about the Cold War as they watched Russia and Georgia fight over Abkhazia. That bickering between those countries would later turn into a fulltime invasion as Russian tanks advanced to within miles of the capital city, although well after we all left for future posts. Like everyone, we were living history but we felt it thanks to the strangeness and extra awareness that often comes with being an expat.

The running came back as well. I ran at the Hippodrome but quickly ventured out to explore my city and the mountains that rose around it. I would run to the top of the mountain behind my house and look out over the half-finished apartment buildings waving with colorful laundry, the pollution-filled main streets winding down to the river, and the ancient brick houses in the old city and feel happiness, contentment, and a sense of belonging. I would wave to the men gathered in front of the car repair shops, yelling “Zdravstvuyte” in response to their greetings and fly by them, yes, a woman who exercised just like many of their wives and daughters did. I smiled and waved to every female athlete I passed, happy to see that we were not on our own. I returned to my previous method of exploring new surroundings with gradually expanding runs in circles around my neighborhood. I’m not a tourist, but exploring on foot isn’t just for tourists, it is for everyone.

Lastly, I remained an artist. I visited potters and painters and basket weavers. I didn’t make pottery myself, that came later, but I did begin to write. I did find ways to express myself creatively. I bought a sewing machine and made teddy bears and beanbags and purses. I sold my wares at the holiday bazaar. Later, I would buy a portable kiln and set up tiny studios at future posts to indulge my passion if not make it a real job. I found ways to meld my interests, creating a business that combined creativity and education, writing history curriculum and activity books for children.

In the end, it turned out that I was still a teacher, a runner, and an artist. I was still confident, independent, and strong. In fact, I was more so. I had felt so lost and confused but that period of time strengthened my identity. Instead of being who I was because of where I lived, where I came from, and who I knew, it was a deeper, significant, and solid identity. To some degree, I have gone through this same period of loss and recovery with each new country in which I live. And each time, I’m that much stronger.

Of course, by the time I left I loved everything about Georgia. I could handle the traffic, had mastered market language skills, and had found my own sense of self. I saw what the tourists find but I also had good Georgian friends, a box full of incredible recipes, and a deep knowledge of the winding streets and treasures in the city thanks to my long and regular runs. One could live in Georgia for decades and never unearth all the treasures. I’m so glad I had two years to scratch the surface.

Leah Moorefield Evans moved abroad 11 years ago and has since lived in Georgia, Ecuador, Ukraine, and Paraguay. She is the proud mother of four fantastic expat children and runs the blog www.afterschoolplans.com, which provides resources and ideas for expat families regarding education and transitions. She has published On the Move Kids, A Relocation Workbook, a picture book called Patches, the Moving Bear, and was the editor for Raising Kids in the Foreign Service, a book of essays by a wide variety of authors. You can find these books and more at http://afterschoolplans.com/afterschoolplans-bookstore/.