The difference between an immigrant and an expat is significant. What makes a person one or the other is determined by their reasons for leaving their home country, and what they intend to do once they arrive in the new one.
An immigrant has no plan to return home. He or she is not changing residence to achieve a career or educational goal. They’re not chasing the novelty of a new experience. Integration into the new culture is necessary for survival.
An expat is temporary. They travel to another country for whatever reason, and integrating into a new culture isn’t as crucial, because one day, they’ll go home again. If one is an expatriate, there’s a suggestion of luxury and decadence.
The difference is significant when we’re talking about words. When we talk about the people, things are more complicated. Humans don’t fit into neat little boxes and definitions.
The British couple retiring to the apartment they recently purchased in Paris are expats. The Sudanese woman who moved to Paris 10 years ago and cleans that apartment is an immigrant. The Australian who lives in the apartment next door and has lived in Paris for the past few decades is… an expat.
But that’s bullshit.
The definitions of “expat” and “immigrant” are clear, but have been muddied and are now racist and classist code for white people of a certain socioeconomic class moving abroad, or you know, people who are of a lower socioeconomic class and not white.
None of this occurred to me when I moved abroad. I admit it. In my ignorance, for the first few years, the actual meanings of the words meant nothing. I didn’t think about them, or what they implied. I was too busy focusing on what was happening in my own bubble and adjusting to my new surroundings. The code is what fed my perception of expats and immigrants.
About a month after I moved overseas, I began attending French classes at a school for adults in Paris. There was one other white American woman, and everyone else came from… well, everywhere else. Japan. Columbia. Germany. India. Mexico. Brazil. Columbia. Sri Lanka. South Africa. Argentina. We all got along and it seemed to me like we were all adrift in the same boat. Even if they all picked up on learning French much faster than I did. Most of them were already at least bilingual, after all. It was fun. It was awkward. I made friends. I began learning a new language, a new city, and a new country, but never thought about who among us in that room was an expat or an immigrant.
The next class I took was very different. Instead of attending Lycée d’Adultes de la Ville de Paris again, I decided to take the free classes provided by the state. And I began to wake the fuck up. The only other white people were from Yugoslavia, Poland, and Russia. When we talked about our homes, I quickly realized that many of these people could never go home again, even if they wanted to. One day, on my way to class, I spotted one of my classmates hunting in the trash cans along the rue. These were immigrants, and more than once, I put my foot in my mouth, again ignorantly assuming that we were all in the same boat and were all in this together. They were kind to me in my ignorance, would have a laugh, then gently remind me in one way or another that I came from a first world country.
I realized that even though I never felt like I had a life of privilege when I lived in the U.S., I still had a kind of privilege that hadn’t occurred to me. I ended that French class without having improved my language skills much, but came away something more valuable.
In time, the language classes stopped, and classmates drifted apart. For a while, I didn’t miss that connection. I wrote stories. I traveled. I continued with life until eventually, I did miss it. Seeking something similar, a replacement for that camaraderie, I searched for expat meetups in my area. In my particular corner of rural France, there was nothing. Well, aside from one woman from New Zealand who seemed pretty cool. At first. After chatting for a couple of hours, however, she mentioned something about how the Maori back home were savages, that their native tongue should be eradicated and performing the Haka before rugby games was primitive, and also, “Hey, only 3,000 people died in 9/11, so why do Americans make such a big deal about it?”
I just felt like maybe we didn’t have a lot in common.
Hanging out with other Americans in France never appealed to me much. I often found myself unable to relate, and it seemed like a way of clinging to what I left behind instead of adjusting to my new home. But, one day I came across a Facebook group for Americans in France and joined up. I met some cool people, a few of which I’m still in touch with. I also encountered people who maybe don’t appreciate the Haka as much as I do. I ended up leaving the group when someone (okay, it was a white dude) wanted to know “why is that these rapsters can use the N word, but I can’t?”
The following year, I moved to the UK. I gave the American expat group another go. I entered under the impression that we are all there to help one another out, but from the start, I again found myself unable to relate to any of the discussions.
Expat 1: “You guys, grocery shopping here is too hard. The translations don’t make any sense.”
Expat 2: “I know what you mean. I bought some water chestnuts at Waitrose, and it turned out they were roasted chestnuts.”
Expat 3: “I almost cried trying to find the waffles. Nothing is in the right place.”
Expat 1: “I leave the store shattered every single time. I needed slivered almonds and had to make due with sliced almonds.”
Expat 3: “The food here is too wet.”
Expat 4: “Okay, but the bartenders, you guys. The other night, at the pub, I had to ask for a Maker’s Mark Manhattan TWICE. So disappointing.”
Expat 2: “Are you all stockpiling for Brexit? My dog is on a raw food vegan diet and I’m really worried that I won’t be able to get his special food.”
Expat 4: “I can never find a big Cobb Salad or cornbread. What’s the deal with that?”
To be fair, moving to any new country is difficult. The things you’re used to in daily life are gone. Everything looks and sounds different. For me, moving to the UK after 10 years of France was a fucking cakewalk. It’s almost as easy as being in the States. Sure, there’s weird things like calling the garbage can a rubbish bin, different spellings and pronunciations, but it’s not complicated. It’s not a new language. If people can move to a new country, learn an actual different language and make due with never being to go home again, or feeling less than welcome in their new home, then you can learn how to make your own fucking salad. If you’re having a breakdown in the store because you can’t find a thing, maybe there’s something else going on. Or, maybe you’re an expat with first world problems who would do well to spend some time with some immigrants to put that whole waffle issue into perspective. You’re not digging them out of a trash can on a busy street, so what’s the real problem?
I know, I know. I’m a bit jaded. I get grouchy and irritated. I often don’t know how to talk to people in these “expat communities” because I never would have engaged with them back home. I found it easier to talk to immigrants; to those with heavier concerns than their pet’s vegan diet. And I often don’t know which label applies to me. Even though I detest the connotation, I call myself an expat. In spite of the fact that after 13 years, I still have no intention to return to America, and have never lived a life of luxury and decadence. But, I hesitate to refer to myself as an immigrant, because in spite of coming from a single parent working-class background with no college degree, I still come from a certain level of privilege. My transition overseas was easy compared to many.
What I mean is, I’m not fancy enough to be an expat, and haven’t earned the right to call myself an immigrant.
What we need are new categories. New words. A new way to describe the Haka haters and those who have to make due with the wrong cut of almond, and… everyone else. I don’t have the answers. If you do, let me know. I’ll just be here, making my own goddamn salad.