This time last summer I was hooked on the Olivia Rodrigo song So American, a flirty ode to a budding romance with her English boyfriend. Coincidentally, I too was falling hard for a Brit. Despite ten years between Miss Rodrigo and I, in the throws of my big fat crush, I too felt 22. The song hit. The giddy lyrics that bordered on silly. The squeals hidden in the sonic. The bashful “stop it” at the end, too cute to conceal despite the embarrassment of being chalant. While both dick-sick, there was one big difference between the two of us. While Miss Rodrigo took her man’s playful dig dubbing her “so American” as a cute bit, I had to work through being triggered by the pet name.
“You’re so American.” The phrase like nails on a chalkboard. As a kid, it was a label that drove me crazy. It had the power to send a pit into my stomach, erupt me into tears. When my dad and brothers (all 100% born and raised Dutch) would say it to me, I knew it wasn’t a compliment. I could read the room. None of them respected America. Certainly not Americans. With their big cars, loud voices, and unhealthy food.
“I am not!” I would yell back, lump forming in my throat. The words filling me like venom.
“You really can’t be teased,” my mother would shoot back when I tried to be consoled by her.
No one understands me!!
It could never just be a joke to me. It held too much weight. If it was just teasing because of my display of obnoxious American idiosyncrasies, then fine. Sure, I could concede to my own sensitivity. But no, it was so much more than that. All I heard in that phrase was you’re not like them. Which I made to mean that something was wrong with me. Which I made to mean that I wasn’t a real Petri. Which I made to mean that I wasn’t enough.
It poked at an identity crisis that continues to follow me today. It is still what separates me from them. My dad, my brothers, and now my nephews. The family I’ve always desperately wanted to be a part of. All the time. In a way that was never going to be my reality. They were a club I was permanently left out of. All because my dad just had to hook up with an American. Think he stopped to think about the impact of making me a mutt as a result? Then, to add insult to injury, the American (my mother) dragged me back to America! Had the audacity to raise me in the tacky place! Established my life there! Without even consulting my opinion!
Here’s the thing, I now know that the meaning I made of this little “joke” was never how the people I loved most meant for me to take it. And, even further to their defense, I likely was acting very American. I would complain about the towels (no dryer, too crunchy). I would complain about the house temperature (no AC, heat system weak). I would complain about hotel rooms (smells funny, too old). I would complain about lugging my suitcase up narrow death stairs (elevator, who?).
All sounds pretty American. Because I was American. Sure, half Dutch by blood, but there came a time when I had to admit to myself that I had been far more influenced by American culture than European culture.
Once I started to sense this reality, fear kicked in. So naturally, in my adolescence, I was ready to fight against the label til the day I died. I wanted everyone to know I was different. I’m not like you other full-blooded brainwashed patriots! Noooo way. Not me. The older I got, the more I leaned into my Dutch side, re-learning the language, staying up to date on politics and pop culture. Anything to distance myself from the American side and unlearn the hellish conditioning I wasn’t able to chose as a child. I had the choice now, baby! And I was team opps! It’s a scam, everyone! They’re lying to you about this place!
The fact of the matter, however, is that I still don’t live in Europe. There’s a reason I didn’t choose to go to University of Amsterdam, to start to build a life there as soon as I could. I’m extremely ambitious. Debilitatingly so, at times. Since I was 10 years old I’ve had big, delusional dreams to live a big, delusional life. To build an empire. To leave a legacy. And to make a lot of money along the way. This type of energy has never felt like a fit for Europe.
I really had to contend with this during the five years my dad was sick. It started a little after my 25th birthday. I was living in New York, trying to make something of myself in the fashion industry, and started dating someone who had a similar sentiment of skeptically to the American dream. Over the years, we got more serious, my dad got more sick, and I started making plans to move overseas permanently. So much so that I made an offer on an apartment in Amsterdam. As fate would have it, that same month he died instead. Suddenly, despite being sick for awhile. And I had to be real with myself. Did I still want to make this move? To rebuild a life that I’ve already built over 25 years in America? My friends. My career. My partner. Leave everything at a time when it felt like things were just getting started? Despite my chronic raised eyebrow and rolled eyes at my side ho country of origin, the answer was no. I chose to stay America.
And yet, the identity crisis remained. Weaker now, for sure. But still there.
Currently I’m back in Amsterdam, visiting for the month of August, which has become a routine over the last four years. It’s a freedom I created. It’s something I’ll never take for granted and I’ve gotten better at celebrating myself for it. When my dad’s illness started, I was still chained to a desk, working 10 hour days for less than $50,000 a year, terrified to ask my boss for a week off to visit my family overseas. I would fly from NYC to Amsterdam for four-day weekends because my vacation days were so limited. Today, I can work whenever and wherever I want. It’s something I’ll never sacrifice. Not even for a whole lot of money.
Last week, I was biking through the busy city center with my 15-yr old nephew when a tourist almost took me off the road, mindlessly walking into the bike lane as they do. I was irritated by the interaction and the vigilance that is required during the summer months, needing to pivot at any moment, otherwise that tourist and I both would’ve been fucked up. I turned to nephew to complain about how annoying the tourists were. His response? Well you are one too.
My god the youth are cutting.
“I am not!” I heard myself respond, before I even realized how defensive I sounded. “I have a passport,” I reminded him, checking my tone this time, worried I was a little too reactive in projecting three decades of an identity crisis on the kid.
“Seriously? But you can’t even speak Dutch.”
And you know what? He’s right. And here we are. Acceptance. Or at least closer to it. I am the Dutch girl who can’t speak Dutch. I am the Dutch girl who also has an American passport. I am the Dutch girl who is, in fact, so American.
xoxox Merel
