ANYTHING TO DECLARE? VOL. 03
I had just ended a conversation with someone I cared for deeply, and my mind was reeling. They were in a bad way and called to let me know. We exchanged solemn but heartfelt farewells, both hoping the intent and care would traverse the multiple time zones between us. As my laptop clicked shut, the room felt claustrophobic. So I threw on a coat, purposefully left my phone on the bed, grabbed my keys, and headed out to the Copenhagen canal. I figured my thoughts would fare better where they could grow and dissipate into the brisk air of my adopted city. There was a breeze, gentle on my face when I opened the door.
I had been walking for all of three minutes when a Fiat full of teenage boys drove past pointing at me, their pubescent voices blending together to shout one bold and clear “Neger!” The n-word in Danish. A large stone suddenly formed in the center of my chest. My hope for consolation from the phone call dissipated along with the echo of the ‘r’ trailing from their window.
I had the sickening sense of being betrayed. Not by the stupid boys in the car or by the persistent unfairness of the world. But by Copenhagen. By Denmark. I still haven’t quite forgiven it for that night. For the first time, my respect for my new home was unrequited. Our relationship was not equal, and the only one who would be making compromises was me. I had pledged my allegiance to the country, but it had pledged nothing to me but an open door on the condition of having the right paperwork. Its allegiance was merely alleged.
My expectation of reciprocation was naive — or at least misunderstood. This discrepancy is the essence of allegiance. Its foundation is a completely imbalanced relationship. One party does absolutely nothing, and the other party must be prepared to give its entire being in support of the other for the possibility of safety. Thinking about it now, perhaps the demand for civil rights should be viewed as a citizen’s request for the country’s allegiance in return.
Countries aren’t just land masses with borders and applied social systems. They are sites for shared historical narrative and understanding. More than lines on a human-made map, countries are more like characters with values, personalities and habits. Denmark, to me, had been rugged and sensitive — not the coolest guy at the party, but the one who knew the closest open grocery store and would come back to help clean in the morning. We personify our places. We imbue them with depth and sentience. We pretend like they can talk back. We give them attitudes and morals. The spirit of a country exists, though it cannot be neatly packaged and is often difficult to see. When I moved to Denmark, it was like courting a majestic mountain, but also seeing that mountain as my new mute best friend. When my silent-best-pal-of-a-mountain found a way to call me the n-word, I started to question the relationship.
Mountain courtship isn’t new to me. I spent my youth pledging allegiance to the US. Every school morning without fail I would recite I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under god, indivisible with liberty and justice for all. It’s so ingrained that it’s impossible for me to read that as a single, smooth sentence and not in the children’s-choir staccato. I was steeped in the idea that devotion to a country would result in its respect and protection. I understood, from a young age, that I had to show my hand first, but I would be rewarded for my support. My honorable action toward a country would have equally honorable consequences for me. But for all my daily declarations of allegiance, I have never felt America to be loyal to me in the same way. Sometimes I didn’t even feel that it claimed me. As James Baldwin famously said, “the flag to which you have pledged allegiance, along with everybody else, has not pledged allegiance to you.” That flag has afforded me many luxuries in life (an American passport is elite global currency), but none of them have equated to feeling undoubtedly wrapped in its protection or held in its esteem. I kept offering my allegiance in the hopes that it would one day offer some back. The possibility was enough to fuel my fidelity fire. Then I left, disheartened but still hopeful.
When I moved, I carried the righteousness of loyalty with me, anyway. Though Denmark, like most countries, has no oft-recited pledge of allegiance (only a one-time oath made upon citizenship), residents are still expected to display their fidelity through actions and behavior. Our agreement was unspoken but almost ceaselessly demonstrated. I felt obliged to the Danish people I’d met, to the simple and sudden Danish wildlife, to the calmness that Denmark grew within me. I was willing to enter a contract with the government in order for me to engage with those things. But my allegiance was never an obligation, it was a choice based on merit and respect. Something I truly thought was reciprocated though hard-earned.
I’ve now been called the n-word more times in Denmark than I have in the US. Always intentionally and degradingly. When Denmark highlights my racial difference with insults, I experience it as a violation of my expectations. The slurs undermine my choice to move there and mock my chosen obligation. The disregard of my offered fidelity makes me feel foolish and tricked. Dispensable. What did it mean that night when I searched for solace in a place I assumed would care for me because of the sacrifices I had made for it? What did it mean when that place took careful and exact aim at my vulnerability? What does it mean for any of us to enter into relationships with countries — whether by birth or by choice — to which we pledge our everything and hope for just a little allegiance in return?
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This is the third of a 12-part mini-series exploring my experience with immigration. Read the previous installments or sign up to get the rest of the volumes delivered directly to your inbox here.