Being a resident
It is late summer in Evanston. The cicadas are humming. The trees are leafiest green. It begins to get cool in the evening. Today was the first day of class for me. I called in to the lectures from my mother’s back yard.
Il y a trop des posibilités en anglais : c’est trop facile, pour moi, de jouer avec les formes ou les tournures alternées et alors me perdre parmi le tourbillon des mots opposés et confus. C’est absolument louche. Chelou, hein? Je trouve que parler en français, c’est plus facile qu’en anglais, même si je suis plus certain en anglais qu’en français. C’est dû precisement à cette certitude que je me trompe : je vois tous les formes possibles, tous les alternatives (en verité je ne vois qu’un petit mourceau de l’univers de la langue, et c’est déjà trop) ; de plus je suis chaque jour encadré par des forces et des vagues de langage (et je dit «langage» et pas «langue» parce que je veux causer de l’usage et non pas de la langue choisie) qui me… qui me quoi? Déjà ma connaissance du français est bien vide.
My mother — my sainted mother, as I took to calling Rita’s mother after she (the mother) sewed the buttons back on to my button down shirts when she did my laundry at their house in Mantova. I almost said Verona there, then “how far away all that seems.” I am going native and I don’t know what to do — is growing old. (Whenever I do something I feel it’s the most important thing in the world.) Don, before he died, was concerned about her mental acuity: “she seems confused on the phone lately;” (I never could do a good southern accent!); but at the time I discounted it. Besides, Don sounded pretty confused to me on the phone, too, but that could have been me.
Today we filled out the petition (and I mean the “petition”) to the University of Illinois. I am petitioning to be considered a resident. The tuition is lower for students who are a resident of Illinois. But many people move here to go to the University: they are Illinois residents and can provide the proofs requested by the University. Therefore the University has to seperate people who live in the state to go to the University from those who don’t; the latter alone are eligible for in-state tuition. Confused? Me too.
Today my mother and I finished the application. We had to make sure that I had all the necessary documents and check that I had filled out all the forms. I had all the necessary documents; I had more than enough. But I wanted to know which were enough. I wanted to complete the form. I had been held up on a question that solicited an essay response. It had asked me to “briefly indicate the reasons other than University attendance that have led you to seek establishment of Illinois residency and the actions you plan to maintain that residency” (emphasis original). I didn’t know what to say. My mother didn’t know what to say. Michael didn’t know what to say. My mother said to me, in private, “it’s rediculous what they expect you to do,” and Michael was finally struck dumb by the oddness of the whole thing. I wrote a statement that hurt me:
My mother and father moved to Illinois with me when I was six years old. When my father returned to Switzerland, I stayed here with my mother. I went to elementary and middle school here, and return here when I do not have to be anywhere else. The only time I have not been based in Illinois was when I was out-of-state for education.
The last sentence was added later, after my mother read what I had so far. She wanted to correct it, and for me to make a clean copy. I didn’t: I made it clear that this was the last of it, and she understood.
The above-quoted paragraph is one of the ugliest I have ever written. I am, frankly, ashamed. I think. Certainly the handwriting is appauling. I wrote it on my notebook in my lap.
My father never wanted me to think of myself as from Chicago: he once asked me whether I did, and I said no. He said, “good.” He always hated it here, or manifested hating it here to me.
In Europe, it was always clear that I was from the US, though I usually slid by on knowing the language, which made me, at worst, a curiosity. In Chicago, though, I always feel as a foreigner. Felt. I don’t know.
