St. Andrew is the patron saint of Scotland, Russia, Greece, and an assortment of other nations and regions. Today is celebrated, with varying degrees of fervor, by people in and expatriates of those countries across the world. Though Scottish, this has never been a big deal in my or my family’s calendar.
Strange then, that I awoke this morning to an email from my old man that read, simply, “Happy St. Andrew’s day.” Del boy, as he is fondly known to my siblings, is a character and has said many things to me over the years. Notably, in 1997, when I was selecting which subjects to continue with in high school, he advised, “Computing? Waste of time. There’s no future in that.” A decade-long struggle with technophobia and has ensued for your Luddite scribe since he gathered this was poppycock. My dad is also unmistakably proud of his Scottishness, even voting a few years ago for the pro-independence (from the UK) Scottish National Party, on the back of their manifesto of (seriously) “becoming the next economic Iceland or Ireland”. Never, in all his wisdom, has he wished me a happy St. Andrew’s day. So why now?
Because, I believe, it is a universal and inevitable quirk of expatriatism that the alien becomes more acutely aware of their distinct background. Similarly, their loved ones at home feel duty-bound to make efforts to keep their expatriate tree from detaching from its roots and toppling over.
I have never celebrated St. Andrew’s day. I could count on one hand the number of Highland Games I have attended. And this is not only because I consider myself British first: neither have I ever watched the Queen’s annual Christmas day speech. Yet, in many way, living in New Hampshire makes me cling to my tartan roots. If there’s a highland games on within a 100-mile radius, count me in. The rare drone of bagpipes requires me to fight my tear ducts for my dignity. Jings, I’m wearing a Scottish rugby top as I type.
Despite my increasing affection for shortbread and whisky, Tuck has already given me a more worldly outlook. It’s inevitable when my life now involves working day in, day out with Yang from Shanghai and Delicia from Texas, partying with Nilesh from India and Erik from Maine, scrumming next to Juan-Pablo from Mexico and George from Connecticut, developing leadership skills with Susan from South Carolina and Jonathan from Strasbourg, laughing with Connor from Boston and Lisa from Ohio. As norms have become idiosyncrasies, my appreciation of my own parochial culture has developed immeasurably. I feel like a citizen of a global village (and I don’t just mean Hanover). Yet, my heart swells at the sight of a saltire. This is the bittersweet existence of an expat. In any event, happy St. Andrew’s day!
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