From Germany to Vermont: The Pain of Calling Too Many Places Home

My hands are four inches deep in rich, freshly tilled earth. I dig a small hole and nestle a lettuce seedling into it, pressing the soil around the tender roots. The sun shines bright and the smell of warm soil fills the air. I raise my eyes to rolling mountains against a vivid blue sky. I view all of this as if observing someone else’s life. The disjointedness of my existence makes me feel a bit dizzy, even nauseous at times. As if I had just stepped off of a rapidly spinning ride. The beauty all around me pushes futilely against a deep aching emptiness inside me.

The past few weeks have been a tumultuous blur. When my visa application was rejected we had only a few weeks to leave Germany, to pack up our lives there, fly back to the US, visit our families, find jobs, housing, a new life all over again. And here we are, in the Green Mountains of Vermont, on an organic hippie commune farm. Living in a tree house. I spend my days working in the greenhouse, planting in the fields, or baking artisan bread in a wood burning oven. It is all like a dream–one we would have wished for not long ago.

Now I feel numb and hollow.

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As a kid I always loved spending time with friends–parties, sleepovers, road trips. But there would always reach a point where the fun would still be going on around me, while I would become withdrawn from it, wearied of the excitement, and all I would wish for was to go home, curl up in my own bed, sleep in late and wake up to the sounds of my mom bustling around the kitchen.

I feel that now. That weariness. That ache. A homesickness. The pain is familiar, but now it is different. Why? Because when I feel that ache, the desire is undefined. I’m homesick, but for what?

I have always been someone who loves slowly, but deeply. Once that love is established, it is there to stay. My first love was a little crooked house on top of a hill in the foothills of the Catskills. For 19 years that was my only home. My family, my friends, my world was that place. When I ached for home, the direction of that longing was clear.

Now, when I long for home I see that little house on a hill, I see familiar faces of my childhood, the deeply forged friendships of college, winding cobblestone streets, castles, the Alps, a warm blue ocean crashing on a sunny beach, and over it all the never ending throbbing of the bells–from cathedrals, ancient and grand.

But this home does not exist as a whole. It is fragmented and scattered across, states, countries, and continents. And my heart aches and throbs like the ringing of the bells, but it does not know which direction to turn, to head home, to rest.

Can you love too many people? Too many places? Can the heart endure it?

The party and the excitement, new people and adventures go on around me, but I am weary and I long to rest.

I wonder if I have loved too much.

Will I ever be content to call one place home? Or am I doomed to forever seek what does not exist?

Deportation: The Experience of a Privileged White American

Ever wondered what a deportation letter looks like? Now you know.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be deported from a country you are living in? If you are an average, privileged, native, white American like myself, then probably not. Perhaps you have imagined what it is like to be a Mexican immigrant sent home to drug cartels or a Syrian refugee sent back to war and terrorism. But while the issue of immigration is a major social and political issue in the US today, for many of us the concept of deportation is foreign and abstract. As US citizens we have wide freedom to travel the world with minimal hassle. And most of us don’t have plans of moving out of the country.

But what if you did? What if you wanted or needed to move out of the US, but couldn’t?

This isn’t a political statement (though I do have my own thoughts on immigration policy), it is the story of of a unique and unexpected experience which has changed the way I look at personal freedom of mobility forever.

———

As I turned the key in my mailbox I felt the usual clenching of my stomach. I opened the door and a fat, orange envelope was waiting inside. It was heavy and thick in my hands and I couldn’t breathe as I opened it there in the public hallway–too anxious to wait until I reached my own apartment. I hurriedly scanned the twelve pages of dense , formal German; searching for words I recognized. For something that would clue me in to the nature of this document.

I hadn’t made sense of a single sentence before the rock settled in my stomach. This was wrong. The orange envelope, the thickness of the packet, too many pages. I didn’t know anything yet.

But I knew.

———

When my husband got the acceptance letter for a prestigious graduate program in Germany, we were ecstatic. It had been our dream to live in Europe for a while, and he needed to get a master’s degree–which we could not afford. The discovery of free programs in Germany seemed to be the perfect solution. We only had a few months to get everything together–visas, flights, find an apartment, etc. It was overwhelming.

I had been working at Starbucks for over a year with the hopes that this would happen and I could transfer internationally–making the international job and visa process much easier. Unfortunately, Starbucks would not “sponsor” a visa. AKA, they would not give the necessary documentation I needed to obtain a work visa, saying that they would hire me once I was overseas.

The most viable solution then seemed to be to move to Germany with the automatic three month tourist visa available to US citizens traveling in the EU and apply for a work permit while there. My husband was granted temporary legal residency as a graduate student and I had an employer that wanted to hire me and I am American. It should have been easy, right?

———

I stood in a long line of people of various nationalities–old, young, children fidgeting. The place smelled of body odor. And anxiety.

I recited my carefully practiced sentences under my breath. But I prayed the person in the booth would speak English. The game of trying to speak a foreign language while ordering my morning “Kaffee” or “Brot und Kase” at the market lost all its enjoyment when it came to trying to explain the finer points of my legal requests. 

I had learned that it was hit or miss. Some of the immigration officials spoke okay English, some none, and some simply refused to speak anything but German whether they could or not. I looked around at the foreign faces surrounding me and wondered how they did it. Did they speak German? Or English, the current lingua franca? Did they have any hope of someone speaking their language? Did they have friends to help them?

The Asian family ahead of me was moving on. It was my turn. I walked up to the booth to see a blank, disinterested face looking back at me. “Sprechen Sie English?” I ask, tentatively. The man thinks for a moment and then shrugs. “Nein.”

I summon my rehearsed lines. I know I only have a few minutes to convey what I need before the restlessness of the line behind me transfers to the man before me.

I leave the building moments later in tears. Less sure than ever of my situation or what is expected of me. I always leave more hopeless than when I arrive.

———

So much of our new life was wonderful. An adorable little apartment, winding cobblestone streets, immersion in a beautiful old culture. We were full of hope and anticipation. But we were anxious to get my job and residency settled so we could feel stable and at rest.

The weeks passed and I had not heard anything about my work permit. We watched our savings dwindle. But it would be okay. It would come through and everything would be fine if I could just work.

———

My husband attended classes in another town several days a week. At first I tried to keep busy during the day. But as time passed I did less. I stayed in bed till the mail came. Then I would check it for news. Nothing. Another day until my life could begin again.

Back to bed.

I would hear his footsteps on the stairs and hurriedly put on pants and wait on the couch so he wouldn’t know I had been in bed all day. 

Two or three times every week we went to the Auslandebehorde to ask for updates. Next week, they said. And then the next week. And on and on. 

Every day was a cycle of fear, anticipation, and disappointment. 

We did our best to enjoy life anyway. And we did, while looking out from the castle ramparts, or sitting outside a tiny cafe eating gelato. But with a perpetual cloud hanging over us.

One day we went to the Auslandebehorde, determined to get answers. In broken English they informed me that my application for a work permit had been rejected. I was not a “priority” they said. 

The shock of the statement took me so off guard I could not absorb it. Could this happen to us? Could we be rejected? Denied permission to remain in a country despite having solid work and school opportunities?

I stared in disbelief. Our savings were nearly gone. We were screwed. 

———

In the face of this harsh blow we mustered all the strength we had left, determined to find a solution. Starbucks requested that the application be reassessed–stating that they wanted me and that I would be a valuable asset. No avail.

I was running out of time, but at the last minute I obtained an online job writing for an American Web design company and submitted an application for spousal reunification.

We had to downsize our apartment to get by. I couldn’t leave the country while my paperwork was being processed. I looked on the Polizei with nervousness–afraid I would make some small infraction and be promptly removed.

But overall, things got better. We were hopeful. I had a paycheck, small though it was.

———

I had just begun to relax, to really enjoy this amazing opportunity of living in another country when a letter arrived. All in German, as usual. A friend translated for us–they needed more documents to determine whether I was eligible to stay.

I waited in line again. Anxiously. At the cubicle a woman took my papers. She looked at them and informed me that they would be filed and I would receive “eine brief von die Post.” 

I tried not to let fear get to me. I embraced our life here. I loved the city. We went running. Explored castles, cathedrals, and forests. We collected keepsakes, pretty dishes, a painting to hang on the wall. We planned and dreamed of the places we would travel once I received my permit. I prayed for a letter so I could be approved. I hoped the mailbox would be empty so I wouldn’t be rejected. 

———

It had never occurred to me prior to this experience that I couldn’t  leave the US if I wanted to. I’m a privileged white American. Of course I can go where I want and do what I want.

If I had the money, that might be true. But countries don’t want to take on new residents that they aren’t confident will benefit their national community. I thought I would obviously meet these requirements.

I didn’t.

———

I could not read the tedious pages in the yellow envelope. I caught words here and there, but we needed to translate it. We laboriously typed page after page into a translator. It only took the first page to know I had been rejected. Another to know there was no use trying to appeal it.

They had decided they didn’t want me and, for someone without means, that was the end of it. No one had sat down with us, heard our story, explained what was needed. Just letters in German demanding this or that by a certain date. We never anticipated failure. So sudden. So final.

I’ll admit we had thought about just staying anyways, but the formidable threats of “forcible removal” and never being able to re-enter solidified our decision to give up. 

I was given less than a month to depart.

———

We are canceling our lease, our internet, buying last minute flights, emptying our nearly empty bank accounts. But my husband already has job opportunities lined up and my work is increasing by the day. We have no house or car to return to, but comfortable and loving family and friends will be waiting to embrace us and support us.

I can’t help but think of what it would be like if that weren’t the case. If we had risked everything, for nothing. If our goal in moving had been survival, not simply taking advantage of an exciting life opportunity.