Happy eight year anniversary, Germany. We could officially get hitched, y’know. One of your conditions would be that I dump Canada and Hong Kong, which I’d never do. I used to think this was a bit of a pity; every time I stood in line at immigration at a European airport I salivated at the thought of a red passport.
But honestly? Me? German? The very thought baffles. The lack of simple dual citizenship in this country saves me from the dissonance of be(com)ing “German”; in turn, I will save the German right from arguing that I could never be German, red passport notwithstanding, by stating it loud and clear myself: I could never be German. Unless the ground were to open up and swallow whole the not insignificant landmass of Canada, my home (but not native) land, my loyalties lie elsewhere. I guess we’re both happier for it.
Having more rights might go a ways to normalising the idea of being German. If I had voting rights I’d inform myself more about this country to better understand which way I’d want to coax it and how. I’d watch and read the news more. I’d care more about (my fellow) Germans and the things they care about. Obviously I have a stake in this country already, even without voting rights, but without voting rights it’s easier to excuse my political laziness with the belief that I couldn’t change anything.
Utter nonsense, of course. But it’s the lie I feed myself to feel less guilty about being so inactive. Maybe if I were to become a part of this society, I’d feel more a part of this society. But I won’t, so I don’t, and I think we’re both A-OK with that. Neither of us seem ready to commit anyway.
So happy anniversary, my dear Germany. Let’s raise a glass to this hella long casual fling of ours.