I realise that few people have such a hard time with the question: where do you come from? as I do. People who know me, and hear a stranger asking me this for the first time, usually roll their eyes and hit the pause button in their mind thinking: if she tells the whole story this could take a while – brain, go ahead, take a nap. Although from some few I have heard that the story of my background could also be seen as interesting. So all of you who want to hear it: bear with me, this is the story of me. (P.S.: for those friends who might have only heard this once and get confused, feel free to come here and check).
I will not divulge my real name yet, for I have no idea who might visit this page and come to haunt me thereafter. But I can tell you this: I was born on January 15th 1985 in Flemington, New Jersey, USA. So yes, I am an actual American. Suck it.
My parents consist of the following: a German father, born in Austria in 1945 (so the borders of those two countries were kinda blurry at the time) of a German mother and an Austrian father, who he might have seen, oh, the whole of three times in his existence. I always thought my opa (that’s how I would have called him, I guess) was dead, until we got the note that he had, in fact, passed away. So my dad grew up with his mother, a sturdy and serious German woman (I mean like literally out of the book), studied and then worked for a german ingeniering company. This company sent him to work in Belgium, where he met my mother.
My mother was born – brace yourselves – in Africa. And before anybody asks: I am not black, ’cause my momma ain’t either. So there. At the time (she might not like my posting a year, so I won’t), Zaire was a Belgian colony, in our days better known as Congo, and her father was a Belgian diplomat. This also explains why some people in my family speak Swahili, fluently. To make things even more complicated, my opi (as I would have called him) was from the Flanders region of Belgium, where they speak dutch, and my omi was from Wallonia, where they speak french. Sadly, my grandfather got sick and then passed away when my mom was eight. So that’s how she got back to Belgium and then some day started an internship in the company my dad worked for. And that’s how she met him.
Then he was supposed to get transferred again, to the far away country named in three letters (hmm… tough one). So they thought: hey, we’re in this together, so before we make such a big step let’s solidify it. And got married. Twice (well duh, there’s a German and a Belgian family to consider).
So up over the big pond they came one day to a pretty big state called Texas. That’s where my older sister was born, although you really can’t tell (well, she was hardly two when they moved again). I’m not sure how much more I’ll say about her at this point… maybe you’ll just have to get to know her over my future posts. Anywho, that only lasted two years until they got to the point where I started this rant: good ol’ Jersey.
Now contrary to popular beliefs, I don’t think Jersey is a boring place at all. I had an absolute marvellous childhood there, all the way up to third grade. I plan to post about those years, so I won’t have to say much more about that here. So I was eight, and then we moved again.
1993: Paris. Well, almost. For those of you who know it, it’s nearer to Versailles. For those of you who have no clue: it’s in France. I went to a full time school there, half-german, half-french speaking, all the way from forth grade to graduation. Not far into it, namely 1996 (so I was 11, for those of you keeping up), there was another break in the story of my life, which will influence me forever. On April 10th of that year, after a few months of illness, my father died of lung cancer (he had never smoked a single cigarette in his life).
The next big thing came in 2001 when, after my mom remarried (won’t get into that here), my little half-sister was born. She has even more nationalities than we do (through her father). She could be french, too, since she was born there, but I’ll try my damn most hardest to talk her out of it. In that time in France, I did have german as well as french friends, but I didn’t keep a good relation to the country. We pretty much tolerated ourselves until I was old enough to get the hell out of there. Which is exactly what happened when I turned 18. I moved. Again. (Is anyone getting tired of this?).
Last station (until now…) is Germany. I’ve been studying here since 2003 and hope to be done in about a year. Where I’ll be after that, I really can’t say yet. But along the way I’ve met some pretty impressive and wonderful people, who just might get me to stay put this time. I hope you’ll get a chance to get to know them (anonymously, of course) along the journey of this blog.
I could go on now about what kind of a person I am, what I like and dislike, etc. … But frankly, I think this story is long enough and I guess you’ll find out about those things anyway – if you read this blog 😉