Notes from a trailing spouse

They think I am one of them. They think I know who won the cup last year. They think I am fully up to speed with who date whom in the still somewhat minuscule pool of Norwegian celebrities. They think I've seen all the Norwegian talent shows and «talent» shows and big brothery shows and expedition shows and dancing shows and cooking shows and show shows with contestants taken from said pool and with hosts ditto. They think I remember the heat wave of 22. They think my my pantheon consists of biathletes, ski jumpers, cross country skiers and whatever you call those who participate in Nordic combined. Nordic combinists? They think, they think… But they are wrong.

There is no bigger culture shock than coming back to the place you once called home. It shouldn't be, you still have relatives and friends and acquaintances here, and every time you go shopping or call a carpenter or visit the dentist, you understand everything they say and it's within your reach to be funny and even to understand when they are trying to be funny.

You know the language. You know how people interact. That is, you know the language the way it used to be, when you last used it. But words have slightly shifted their connotations, and any adjective in vogue back then, dope or cool or rad, isn't dope or cool or even gobsmackingly amazing anymore – and every time you think you're giving a compliment, there's always a possibility that it's being perceived as if you're dripping of sarcasm.

And those people you know? Relatives who's been around since the day you were born, friends you went to kindergarten with, even your old neighbour who was born as a sixty year old in the 18th century and will continue to be a sixty year old in the same house indefinitely – they are very much the same, and yet something has changed, almost imperceptibly, something is off, like a song being sung slightly out of tune, and yet none of you can pinpoint exactly when the change occurred or how it occurred or how to get the harmony back.

You left this place, maybe seven years ago, maybe sixteen. You went out into the world as a Norwegian through and through, all asocial and impolite and weirdly silent by most other standards. And you did your best out there to be the best Norwegian you could be and to do what any good Norwegian were raised to do. Giving people space, for instance. Lots of space. Because you wanted to be polite.

But slowly, something changed, or you changed, or even the world. Slowly the norwegianness wore thin, and off, and something else emerged. Not entirely unnorwegian, but absolutely not only Norwegian either. Without you noticing, you started greeting people not with a simple hei, but with salaam aleykum, labas, kulshi meziyen, wa anti, wa mrati, hamdulillah, hamdulillah. And not only did you start to shake people’s hands much more, but when you did, you put your right hand on your heart afterwards, instinctively, automatically, as if you'd always done it.

And yet you come back and think things will be the same. You both want them to be the same, the way you remember them and understand them, and dread the very thought of being seven again, or fifteen, or even thirty, and being treated as such, an insecure, slightly pretentious Norwegian. But at least that's something you know and can relate to. At least that's something you can hold on to. So that's what you try to do: be who you were without losing what you have become.

You sit around a dinner table, like in the old days. There is homemade lasagne, your old favourite, and an old family friend has popped over, like he always did. Sure, people are seven or sixteen years older, but their eyes have the same colour, and when they speak, their voices have the same inflection and tone.

Except when you say merci. Then their eyes narrow ever so slightly. And when they start talking about their dogs being so cute and indoorsy, and you join in talking about Moroccan stray dogs; the subject is the same, but the experiences are not compatible.

Oh, they say and change the subject to some ski world cup event some years ago which they apparently watched every second of, all of them, and still remember the tiniest details of.

And as the conversation moves on, for each new subject you hesitate a second or two – does it make sense to bring up your experiences? Can you talk about your kids' schools, the Swiss private school, the Danish public school, the Moroccan school? When they talk about refurbishing and redecorating their houses, how can you talk about a Moroccan villa or a Danish hundred year-old townhouse and not be seen as simply too different?

And when the family friend casually mentions that there are too many mosques in Norway  – how do you tell him that you miss the sound of them and much prefer them to church bells?

We must meet again, they say as you stand in the driveway. It's so nice to have you back home. But next time, try not discussing racism with the family friend, he doesn't mean what he says, not the way you think, he's just direct, that's all. And sorry, we didn't know you didn't eat meat anymore. And it was really strange to hear you use all those foreign words. But it was wonderful to have you here, come back soon!

Thank you, you say, shake their hands and put the right hand on your heart. Inshallah.

They think I'm one of them. Not entirely, at least not on the surface, and not always, but they think that deep down I am not only Norwegian, I am from my home county, my hometown, the area I was born in, the area where my father and my father's father were born, the area where they speak with a certain twang which I never did growing up, but which for some reason I try to do now.

They are wrong. But if I'm not from there, I'm not from anywhere. And even though I will never go back, annoyingly enough some part of me will never leave. A tiny part, and tinier every year.

And in some sense, this tiny part is all they see.

They think I'm one of them. They think I know their songs by heart, like everyone else here, like I used to.

I don’t. But if I practice my impolitesse and asociality and give people space and watch some tightclothed ski guys ski on TV and do my best to hei and heia and blend in, I’ll get there in two or three years, even though I not really understand the locals and even though I have to recreate myself entirely. Just like at any hardship posting.

And then I will come from this place again and can sing these songs again. And kulshi meziyen again.

Inshallah.