The Psychological Phases of an Immigrant, as exemplified through Chad Bilyeu (part 1)
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The Psychological Phases of an Immigrant, as exemplified through Chad Bilyeu (part 1) Lyrics
First Phase
Introduction
I cannot ignore the impetus that led me into life abroad. I am referring to the deciding moment that took place before my actual relocation process of becoming an expatriate. The initial fragment of interest that blossomed in my subconscious resulting in my promulgation of the simplistic expat manifesto: “I want to move there.” This impetus varies amongst people. For some it may be as common as a viewing of a travel show; elementary forays into another culture’s food, fashion or customs can be considered apt interest-arousing introductions. Often times it is a certain level of attraction towards the physical idiosyncrasies of a group of people that entices one towards curiosity of another culture. I believe that before there is any conscious thought towards pursuing such an extreme life change, there is some magnetism that initiates a pattern of behavior, transforming one into an expatriate.
I was first introduced to the city of Amsterdam in the year 1994. I was a 19-year-old dropout from the Cleveland State University and I spent the lion’s share of my time getting high and chasing lionesses. I had just revisited my love of film, as before I began smoking marijuana, my attention span proved too poor to focus the entire length of most feature-length films. One mild fall evening in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, myself and a few of my closer friends decided to smoke a fat-ass blunt and go see Pulp Fiction, the highly-touted film that won the Palme d’Or at Cannes that year. I genuinely loved the film, but it was the conversation between Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield that forever changed my direction in life. Vince spoke of this city, this “Amsterdam,” and how one could purchase hash legally from bars there; tales of how police weren’t allowed to frisk your person. Being an American citizen fully aware of marijuana laws due to my involvement in the subculture, I could not fathom the fact that there was a country that actually allowed the sale and use of marijuana. I hadn’t even given the country of Netherlands a thought since I found out years prior to that moment that they were deep into the slave market. Before the “08:00" mark of Pulp Fiction, I had decided that I was definitely going to travel to Amsterdam, as soon as possible.
Surface scan/initial observations
My initial moments in my new country were like a return to infancy-back to a time when I was conscious of all stimuli within my environment, as everything within my environment was novel. I took notice of the architecture abound, the languages that were being spoken, the fashion folks were wearing and all the other identifying traits of the city-instantly and ubiquitously. There was no other option but to immediately immerse. I didn’t realize during this period that there was more to be learned beyond how to say “Thank you” in Dutch and the physical layout of the city. I was in the infant stage of a journey that would expand my understanding and challenge my convictions.
I had visited Amsterdam on five different occasions prior to my relocation, so I was already familiar with the layout of the city and a bunch of superficialities that tourists tend to acquire. I found myself amazed by how relaxed everyday life was in Amsterdam. There were no poor people. Everyone was shopping in sunglasses, UV-blocked from the ills of the modern world. The fluidity of bicycle traffic mesmerized me. I stood completely fucking befuddled by my kitchen faucet, pondering “How in the fuck does this tap water taste so goddamned good?” My eyes scaled the toned, twin towers that are Dutch lady legs. I enjoyed life in a relatively non-violent community. Situations that would have ended in wanton destruction back home quelled into mutual disagreements. Everything I saw seemed magical, like Disneyland or Narnia, or some other fantasy location as such.
Love based upon opinion
Meeting new people and going to completely novel places had me blindly infatuated. I was smitten with Amsterdam. I saw no flaws. Because of the Netherlands’ appropriation to the American way of life, adopting the tempo of the city was no task at all. It was as if the mayor knew I was coming and notified all of Amsterdam’s denizens in the form of hand-written, calligraphic letters that were hand-delivered by 192 centimeter tall 21-year-old Dutch chicks in swimsuits. I wasn’t such a love-struck nimrod that I did not realize I knew little about this city, the Dutch, the other ethnicities present, or the Netherlands in general. At that point I didn’t care to know. I floated in a pool of ignorance and delighted in the act. It was total bliss.
Introduction
I cannot ignore the impetus that led me into life abroad. I am referring to the deciding moment that took place before my actual relocation process of becoming an expatriate. The initial fragment of interest that blossomed in my subconscious resulting in my promulgation of the simplistic expat manifesto: “I want to move there.” This impetus varies amongst people. For some it may be as common as a viewing of a travel show; elementary forays into another culture’s food, fashion or customs can be considered apt interest-arousing introductions. Often times it is a certain level of attraction towards the physical idiosyncrasies of a group of people that entices one towards curiosity of another culture. I believe that before there is any conscious thought towards pursuing such an extreme life change, there is some magnetism that initiates a pattern of behavior, transforming one into an expatriate.
I was first introduced to the city of Amsterdam in the year 1994. I was a 19-year-old dropout from the Cleveland State University and I spent the lion’s share of my time getting high and chasing lionesses. I had just revisited my love of film, as before I began smoking marijuana, my attention span proved too poor to focus the entire length of most feature-length films. One mild fall evening in Cleveland Heights, Ohio, myself and a few of my closer friends decided to smoke a fat-ass blunt and go see Pulp Fiction, the highly-touted film that won the Palme d’Or at Cannes that year. I genuinely loved the film, but it was the conversation between Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield that forever changed my direction in life. Vince spoke of this city, this “Amsterdam,” and how one could purchase hash legally from bars there; tales of how police weren’t allowed to frisk your person. Being an American citizen fully aware of marijuana laws due to my involvement in the subculture, I could not fathom the fact that there was a country that actually allowed the sale and use of marijuana. I hadn’t even given the country of Netherlands a thought since I found out years prior to that moment that they were deep into the slave market. Before the “08:00" mark of Pulp Fiction, I had decided that I was definitely going to travel to Amsterdam, as soon as possible.
Surface scan/initial observations
My initial moments in my new country were like a return to infancy-back to a time when I was conscious of all stimuli within my environment, as everything within my environment was novel. I took notice of the architecture abound, the languages that were being spoken, the fashion folks were wearing and all the other identifying traits of the city-instantly and ubiquitously. There was no other option but to immediately immerse. I didn’t realize during this period that there was more to be learned beyond how to say “Thank you” in Dutch and the physical layout of the city. I was in the infant stage of a journey that would expand my understanding and challenge my convictions.
I had visited Amsterdam on five different occasions prior to my relocation, so I was already familiar with the layout of the city and a bunch of superficialities that tourists tend to acquire. I found myself amazed by how relaxed everyday life was in Amsterdam. There were no poor people. Everyone was shopping in sunglasses, UV-blocked from the ills of the modern world. The fluidity of bicycle traffic mesmerized me. I stood completely fucking befuddled by my kitchen faucet, pondering “How in the fuck does this tap water taste so goddamned good?” My eyes scaled the toned, twin towers that are Dutch lady legs. I enjoyed life in a relatively non-violent community. Situations that would have ended in wanton destruction back home quelled into mutual disagreements. Everything I saw seemed magical, like Disneyland or Narnia, or some other fantasy location as such.
Love based upon opinion
Meeting new people and going to completely novel places had me blindly infatuated. I was smitten with Amsterdam. I saw no flaws. Because of the Netherlands’ appropriation to the American way of life, adopting the tempo of the city was no task at all. It was as if the mayor knew I was coming and notified all of Amsterdam’s denizens in the form of hand-written, calligraphic letters that were hand-delivered by 192 centimeter tall 21-year-old Dutch chicks in swimsuits. I wasn’t such a love-struck nimrod that I did not realize I knew little about this city, the Dutch, the other ethnicities present, or the Netherlands in general. At that point I didn’t care to know. I floated in a pool of ignorance and delighted in the act. It was total bliss.
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