With my head on the pillow in a state of sleep delirium, I blindly click shuffle on my playlist.
“Oh, I’m an alien, I’m a legal alien” — “Englishman in New York” by Sting reverberates throughout my bedroom, the sound of soprano saxophones swirling around in my subconscious. I smile to myself, considering my own experiences as an “Englishman in New York.” Metaphorically speaking, of course, since I write this sitting in a coffee shop in the heart of Ann Arbor.
As the saying goes, I jumped across the pond — from London to Michigan — and began living among fish who were complete strangers to me. While I thrive on new adventures far out of my comfort zone, this one in particular came with its own set of advantages and drawbacks. On the first day of college, I was met with unexpected cultural obstacles. My first interaction went along the lines of: “Bet, I’ll see you there,” to which I responded, “Why are we betting on this?” As the semester went on, I began to internally decipher the ways in which Americans think and act. To my surprise, they were doing the same with me.
“I don’t drink coffee, I take tea, my dear.”
Sting has the right idea. I was astounded by the sheer amount of people waiting for their Starbucks order at any given moment in the day. My guilty pleasure is –– and always will be –– a cup of tea with copious amounts of sugar; coffee simply does not compare. On the topic of food, what I call “pain-au-chocolat,” my friends call “chocolate croissant” — which I discovered when I ordered one at a cafe, much to my embarrassment. Later, I asked a barista where the toilet was, to which she gave me a strange look and pointed toward the “bathroom” sign. Before asking for water, I always prepare myself to eliminate the “t” entirely, for fear of dehydration.
“You can hear it in my accent when I talk” — so much so that when speaking in class, I see a mountain of heads turning to face me, their ears pricking at the sound of a voice unlike their own. My accent seemed to me like some sort of barrier, hindering my ability to connect. Finding it difficult to relate to others with what I knew, I began to make myself more malleable by shaping my own experiences to fit within the framework of Midwestern America. Although “slay” has yet to enter my vocabulary, I now have my own opinions on everything from ranch as a suitable condiment to March Madness to the strange phenomenon of using one’s hand as a map.
Growing up in Wimbledon, tennis encompasses my childhood experiences and my neighborhood. It reminds me of the perfect start to the summer season — afternoons spent with my family on Wimbledon Tennis grounds are a quintessential British experience. I recall the only two weeks in a year when my street is amassed with crowds from all over, scrambling to catch the evening matches. Playing tennis also acts as a form of therapy for me. It requires fierce concentration, sparking a connection between my body and my brain. This solitary sport forces me to synchronize all my senses in one fell swoop.
Tennis is a topic that I speak about quite often, especially when interacting and introducing myself to new people. While some friends share my love for tennis, most others find it to be an intriguing aspect of my personality. Initially, I had perceived my “Britishness” as a limitation and something to be given little attention to. Instead, it became an instrument yielding candid conversations and authentic relationships.
Sting reminds his listeners that “manners maketh man.”
So, two years later, I now know that connections are not premised solely on similarities. I don’t need to mimic mannerisms or adjust my own identity in order to make space for myself within a new environment. The topic of tennis was a conversation starter that was unique to me; it allowed me to express my own narrative. In truth, I prefer being the person that makes heads turn and I enjoy the questions that follow. If manners do in fact maketh man, I would rather stick to what I know and learn from what I don’t.
MiC Columnist Nuraiya Malik can be reached at nuraiya@umich.edu.