Amerika

My sister’s little boy looks at me with eyes shining and says “Amerika!” After a few minutes we all realize he’s calling me. I look in the eyes of Aksel, pronounced the same as Axel, and say “What’s my name?”

He doesn’t hesitate. He goes, “Amerika!”

We all laugh. My sister has spent the last three weeks trying to teach my nephews my name. She wanted to surprise me so she also taught them a bit more. She’d go “Where’s Karen coming from?” and Aksel would say “Amerika!” And they’d all be happy.

So, of course, the poor boy thought that was my name.

Yesterday after we found the discrepency out we tried to set the record straight. “No, no sweetie her name isn’t America, it’s Karen.” He looked at me for a few minutes and said “Karen.” And then two minutes later I’d ask him “What’s my name?” he’d go “Amerika!” And I said “No. No. Karen.” Another hour later I asked once more and he said “Ame–Karen.” So we burst out laughing. By the end of the day he’d figured it all out. And called me “Karen.”

The little episode made me think of my life and how what I represent changes drastically when I come here. In the States, I am the foreigner. The girl who’s from Turkey. Over here it’s just the opposite. I’m the one who’s in America.

I used to think that this duality pointed out the fact that I didn’t really belong anywhere anymore. A foreigner in both of my lands. Never really fitting in in either location and always in between. But I don’t think that way anymore. I figure I’m much better off than many…

I belong in both of these countries.

Previously? Tick Tick Tick.