London Calling

My parents are British. You would think that wasn’t a big deal. After all, the United States of America is a relatively new country, existing for only two hundred years on its own. By being under British rule for more than three hundred years, you’d expect there to be an overwhelming similarity in language, culture, and parenting. But say the phrase “zebra crossing” anywhere in the US of A, and you’ll get stared down like an animal in the zoo. .

I first noticed a difference in kindergarten. I couldn’t understand why everyone had a middle name except for me. Why was I the only one without a Disney lunchbox filled with a letter from mom wishing me good luck on the first day (the teacher had to read each one with a smile on her face)? No, I was stuck with a brown paper bag, no note, and a Marmite sandwich. Looking around my surroundings that year, I wondered why Jen, the pigtailed girl in the corner and I were the only ones with hair below our necks. “Strange,” I thought, “my dad has a ponytail!” I thought it was cool.

The problems only got worse with age. Simply walking in to my house and calling my parents by their first names got me interrogated with questions. “I didn’t know you were adopted?” “Oh, she’s not your mother? But you guys look so much alike!” As long as I can remember I had always called my parents by their first names. They had wanted my brother and I to do that since childhood. They felt it brought more of a connection, and less of a sense of titles to our relationship.

At school I couldn’t escape the inheritance my parent left me either. One day while working on our cursive, I needed to throw something out. “Mrs. Nelson, could I throw this in the dust bin?” The perplexity on her face proved this was not going to be a good situation, which was then corroborated by the class laughing and pointing at me. “What are you talking about, Yannai? Do you mean this? In America, we call it the garbage?”. When I then wrote in an essay “I walked on the pavement,” in 4^th grade, my teacher almost called social services thinking my parents let me walk in the middle of the street. She clearly didn’t know I meant the sidewalk.

As I was just getting over these traumatic experiences, I entered gym class. At first I was excited to run around and play with my friends, but then came the rules. “You’re gonna have to bring a change of clothes for gym class” Coach Bradley said, “and there’s no wearing shoes in the gym. Only sneakers.” What? If I couldn’t wear shoes, was I supposed to go bear-footed? And what the hell were sneakers? I raised my hand to clear up the confusion. “Coach, can I wear my plimsolls?” I asked. “Son. What are you talking about? Your what,” he asked back. Not again. Coach Bradley, in his matching sweat suit and slick back hair, looked at me like I should’ve been left back. “You talking about your Converse, son. Limousine’s for the feet” he responded. “Yeah, the plimsolls. They’re Converse, right.” Finally, a man with my intelligence I thought. “Son, in America, we call those sneakers.” I was mortified.

My parents have given me many things to be thankful for. Even having British citizenship is pretty cool, I just wish it didn’t come with British culture. And during the early part of the decade, my family was extremely popular thanks to Austin Powers. Then in December of 2003, my parents got me an early Hanukkah gift. After living in America for almost my entire life, my family and I finally got American citizenship that year. All was saved. My heritage, my language, and even my parent’s names were all American. And just like that, as easy as crossing a zebra crossing or putting on your plimsolls, my culture shock was finished.