S ~ So Are You a Swede or an American?

These are the continuing adventures of a Swedish immigrant during her first year as an American. She boldly went where she'd never gone before...please come along on Adventures in America.

Side Note: The answer to my R post's anachronism question is that those pictures aren't from 1974! (Um, the year I've been writing about.) I'm not in a body cast, DataBoy is at least 4 or 5...Yes, they were bad pictures with shadows from my horrid photography skills and have extra pictures in the shot because they're from a Creative Memories album, but that wasn't what I was looking for. Now back to S.

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So what citizenship do you have? Are you Swedish or American? When do you have to decide by? Um, I don't actually know. I'm a Swede because I was born there, and I'm an American because my parents registered me as “birth of American citizen abroad.” When it was time for my social security card, I got one no problem. I've always marked “US Citizen” on forms and no one has stopped me. I have a US passport.

What I do think is the truth (heard it rumored as kind-hearted people have asked me these questions and then TOLD me the answer) is that I have dual citizenship as far as Sweden is concerned, but that once I got my American passport, I officially chose America, who no longer recognizes the Swedish part of me. Makes the Swedes sound open-minded and accommodating, doesn't it?  (The Swede confirmed this info as accurate as far as he knew.)

I could of course find out the correct answer by consulting an immigration lawyer, but it doesn't matter that much to me.  I feel like I'm an American with a rich, Swedish heritage.  When I visit there, people look surprised to hear Swedish come out of my mouth.  I guess I dress like an American.  

One particular incident cracked me up because I was asking for directions (for the 4th on the same trip, with 6 month old Tranporter on my way to my cousin's house in a town about two hours away) and the guy said, "Where are you from???"  I guess someone so hopelessly lost and who didn't know ANY of the landmarks or roads or ramps or frontage roads he was referring to must be some alien.  And I was.

My last trip to Sweden was that one in 1997.  The Transporter got to meet Farmor.  She died before I knew I was pregnant with OYT.  Though Farmor and Farfar are both gone, the legacy they left me with carries on.  I teach my boys our Swedish heritage, and we celebrate holidays two ways.  I think they're proud to be part Swedish.  

Another Culture: Part 2 The Swede and The Nutritionist

In preparation for my Challenge Series: Adventures in America, I've convinced The Swede, my Dad, to share the story of how he and my Mom, The Nutritionist, met, fell in love, moved to Sweden, then in the middle of our childhood, moved to America. It's great to have you here Dad. Thanks for taking the time to share your story with all of us.

ANOTHER CULTURE

by Leif Bilen

When the Arosa Sky of the Holland America Line docked in New York City on August 13, 1957, I was recovering from the Asian flu.  I was one of several hundred high school students who had crossed the Atlantic together. Many of us had spent a few days in bed with high fever and other symptoms. I was not allowed to disembark until local health officials had checked me out and cleared me for entrance into this country; not the greatest start of a year abroad, but it added to the adventure.

From New York City we headed to our final destinations. Along with several others, I was on a chartered Greyhound bus heading to the D.C. area. As the bus made its way to the Lincoln tunnel, I noticed the colorful yellow taxicabs that seemed to be all over the place. Back home all taxis were black and the drivers wore black uniforms. “No, this is not going to be a drab and boring country.”

A Howard Johnson restaurant with its bright orange roof and iconic architecture caught my eye shortly after entering New Jersey. “Wow, I guess I am not in Europe anymore.” It was not the only one along the road. They were all over the place back then. In 2012 there were only two of them left; one in Maine and the other one in New York State. Yes, America’s tastes have changed, and in more areas than food for that matter.

My host family welcomed me with open arms and quickly made me feel at home. During the few weeks before the fall semester I was able to adjust to several things, although they didn’t really come as a huge surprise: a big family, a big house, a big yard, a big church, big cars and so on.

Other curiosities intrigued me. One morning when I walked into the kitchen, there was a man looking into the refrigerator. Then he walked out the back door and returned with some milk, eggs, and butter. The milkman had free access to the house, and it was up to him to determine what the household needed until his next visit. I was used to running to the store for my mother, when were out of something.

Another thing that told me a lot about in what kind of neighborhood we were living in was the fact that nobody seemed to worry about locking their cars while parked in the driveway.

I guess the real culture shock came when I started school. I had attended a medium sized downtown high school for boys. Here I was in a large coed high school on a sprawling campus with huge parking lots for the students who drove their own cars to school, which included Bob, my host brother, who drove me, Bonnie and two other girls. We also had our own stadium for football and other sports. I got used to it faster than I had expected and enjoyed it a lot.

I knew I would probably lose a year of school after returning to Sweden, so I signed up for some rather unique classes not available back home: driver education (1957 Chevy), public speaking, and typing. Although I was a senior, I took 11^th grade English and History, because they dealt with American literature and history. Since Bonnie was a year ahead of her peers, we ended up taking those classes together, and from time to time we helped each other with homework.

Other than that I stuck with the program and hung out with brother Bob and that included both of us playing on the soccer team. However there was little doubt that Bonnie was rather cute and pleasant.

Part 1

Part 3

Part 1 of The Swede and The Nutritionist:

In preparation for my Challenge Series: Adventures in America, I've convinced The Swede, my Dad, to share the story of how he and my Mom, The Nutritionist, met, fell in love, moved to Sweden, then in the middle of our childhood, moved to America. It's great to have you here Dad. Thanks for taking the time to share your story with all of us.

THE SWEDE AND THE NUTRITIONIST

by Leif Bilen

“Do you have indoor plumbing in Sweden?” “What sort of clothes do you wear over there?” “Are there many polar bears where you live?” Those were some of the questions I got from my fellow students at Montgomery Blair High School in Silver Spring, Maryland, as they tried to get to know their new exchange student.

This was during Eisenhower’s second term about half a year before the Soviets launched the first Sputnik. The internet and social media had not yet transformed communications to give us a better awareness of what goes on in other countries around the world. I probably had similar illusions about this country.

I had read The Last of the Mohicans, and I had tasted that curious soft drink called Coca Cola. Then in school I learned a bit more about the Big Country in the West and the more I learned the more interested I became.

When the opportunity for a year’s scholarship to an American high school presented itself, there was hardly any hesitation. I applied, and after a few months a letter advised me I was one of the fortunate ones. I was told I would be going to Silver Spring, Maryland. “Man, this is going to be great. How can I be blessed?”

I soon found out that my family had four children and a maid living with them. The father in the family was an eye doctor. “How am I going to fit in over there?” I was an only child and my dad was a cop, who had to do a lot of moonlighting to make ends meet.

Later, I learned that this was a back-up plan, because the first host, a pastor’s family in the same town had backed out at the last minute. Now, I realize how different my life would have been, if this change had not taken place.

I was both excited and nervous when I prepared to leave my familiar surroundings. As I started to receive letters from members of my new family, I began to calm down. They seemed so nice and genuine. I would be hanging out with a “brother” my age and his letters were very reassuring.

One letter from his 15 year old little sister, Bonnie, puzzled me though. She told me it would be nice, if I could bring along some Swedish dishes. I didn’t quite panic, but I started to wonder. “How are they going to fit in my suitcase? What if they break in transit?” After consulting a dictionary or two, I eventually figured out that she was talking about Swedish recipes, and had I known then what I know today, I would have made sure they didn’t lack nutrition. 

Part 2
Part 3