Foreigner Much

I’m born in Spain to a Belgium Father and an American Mother.

I hold a Spanish and Belgian passport; I’m on the way to getting two more. The Israeli and the American.

When asked where I’m from, I truly struggle with the answer; it never satisfies everyone.

– Someone: “Oh, you’re Spanish! If you have a Spanish passport, then you’re Spanish.”

– Me: “Ok… What about the Belgian one?”

– Someone: “Oh, you’re not Spanish. You’re Belgian. If your Dads from there, so are you.”

– Me: “So… My Mother doesn’t count in this equation?”

– Someone: “Oh, You’re American.”

– Me: “Interesting… Then how come I’m only allowed in the country for 90 days a year?”

– Someone: “Yes, but your mother is American, so she taught you the American way.”

– Me: “Hmmm…. She was born in the US, and she left by the age of six.”

The truth is, I’ve always felt like a foreigner everywhere I go; I’m an outsider. Nobody in my family was born in the same country, my Grandparents are a mix of Irish, Native American, Polish, and Pied Noir. I’m like a bag of skittles when it comes to bloodline.

It’s nice to feel at home in the World and a foreigner everywhere else; it keeps me constantly learning from those around me. It does become a bit embarrassing when people ask me things such as “How do Spanish people make tortilla?” And the best I can come up with is “Like every other good cook: with eggs, potatoes y una pizca de amor y cariño.”

Foreigner – Cyranny

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