I’m an immigrant – but people don’t see me as one because I’m white

‘I’m not being funny, Ginny,’ a friend said to me, ‘but it’s all the immigrants coming over taking up the housing. It just shouldn’t be allowed.’

This was dropped in a conversation I had over 10 years ago with a new friend in the southeast of England, where I live now. It was in the middle of a friendly chat about our children, their schools and how my family has adjusted to living in a new country, as well as how expensive the housing is.

‘I’m an immigrant,’ I quietly pointed out.

‘Oh no, not you. You know what I mean.’

What she – and many people I meet in England – meant are the immigrants who arrive here as economic migrants, those who don’t speak English as a native language; anyone not white or from a country part of the West.

In 1995, I first came to England as a 25-year-old post grad looking for an adventure before starting a job back home in the States. With a six-month temporary visa, I wanted to explore and have fun, never thinking I would meet the British man who became my husband just over a year later.

My husband’s immigrant experience in the US was different to mine in the UK (Picture: Virginia Williams)

Even then, I briefly saw the negative bias towards outsiders.

When I had a minor medical problem and needed to see a GP – despite having every right to use the NHS, working and possessing a national insurance number – the GP angrily told me he didn’t approve of people coming to England, thinking they could get free healthcare. I was stung at the time.

In 1996, my husband and I were married and lived west of London for 14 months before his company offered him a transfer to their Ohio office. Not ready to settle down with a mortgage or children, we jumped at the chance to live a bit closer to my family in Pennsylvania.

We planned to be away for two years, but stayed for 13. In that time, my husband received his US citizenship, we had two children (dual citizens from birth), bought a house and settled into a suburban community.

My husband’s immigrant experience was different to mine: his job kept him busy travelling around the country and his accent intrigued people. Americans tend to fall all over themselves when they hear a British accent, and he found that to be true.

Though the fawning was punctuated by the occasional, ‘What are you doing over here taking jobs from Americans?’ And although he felt the cultural differences, he was welcomed warmly most everywhere he went.

We always planned to return to the UK (Picture: Virginia Williams)

Our Ohio town was a close, diverse community — not without its problems — but it was home.

We knew our neighbours, were involved in our children’s schools, cheered at 4th of July parades and felt a sense of belonging.

One reason we left, however, was because of the regular active shooter drills our children had to endure at school. The real possibility of a gunman barging into their school was an ever-looming shadow. 

Actually, six months after we left the US, an armed teenager shot six classmates – killing three of them – at a school 20 miles away from our former home. Within the year, bulletproof backpacks became available for families to buy as a safety measure for their children to carry to school.

It was a sobering reminder — this was not a world we wanted our children to grow up in.

We always planned to return to the UK, wanting our children to embrace the opportunities available to them here. Mainly, my husband wanted to go home.

My husband wanted to go home (Picture: Virginia Williams)

We left behind my family and a close-knit group of friends and a community, neighbourhood and school we loved. Moving is one of the hardest things I’ve done, not only logistically but emotionally.

Selling our home, completing reams of paperwork to obtain my visa — including interviews, fingerprints, multiple forms, references, and a lot of money — rehome our cats, offload 13 years’ worth of furniture, books, and other possessions, forcing our children to make difficult choices about what to keep and what to give away.

But I know my experience was easy compared to that of most people who emigrate.

I’m not fleeing war, famine or homophobia on a tiny, overcrowded boat – afraid for my life and that of my family. I can never forget the image of three-year-old Alan Kurdi, a Syrian refugee who drowned on the shores of Turkey when fleeing with his family, and remember how lucky I am.

I’m not attacked for choosing a new life here, and I don’t need to navigate my way in a new language.  

In 2011, we returned to the UK as a family of three dual nationals, with plans for me to take on dual citizenship when I legally could. I’m privileged, I know, and even though we chose this, I am an immigrant.

I have a mountain of forms to fill out to receive my indefinite leave to remain (Picture: Virginia Williams)

When I join online forums for Americans in the UK, many of us note that we are considered expats, but some of us are and some of us aren’t — expats are often those who move to a new country temporarily for a job, and immigrants make a permanent move. In those forums, we note the disparity in how each group is perceived: immigrants are viewed negatively, while expats are viewed as an interesting novelty.

When I briefly joined a social group in my new area, one of the members complained loudly about Muslims ruining the country and trying to infiltrate the UK’s Christian culture – equating their presence with the crumbling of British values. Her anger at what she saw as immigrants changing the country for the worse seemingly didn’t extend to me because she saw me as someone like her – mainly, white and English-speaking.

I wasn’t brave enough to challenge her on her anti-immigrant rhetoric because I already knew where that would go – another ‘oh no, not you’.

While I don’t have to deal with overt racism and hostility or the legal holes asylum seekers have to jump through, I still have a mountain of forms to fill out to receive my indefinite leave to remain (IRL) status and, eventually, when I’ve met the time requirements, my British citizenship.

But little things grate on us all: trying to understand the etiquette of the school gate, trying to help my children form friendships, dealing with their tears over being teased for their accent, the contents of their lunchbox, or being told by classmates to go back to where they came from.

A year after our move, I attended my then seven-year-old’s parent’s evening, where his teacher said to me, ‘As much as we don’t like the Americans, we can’t hold that against him’.

My heart is in two places (Picture: Virginia Williams)

I stared at her in disbelief, too stunned to retort, left the meeting and burst into tears. The headteacher later dismissed it as a badly-worded joke, but it stung.

There is grief in leaving home, no matter the circumstances: war, famine, choice. In our early years, my children and I only wanted to go home. They talked about returning when they are older, but now – at 22 and 17 – one is about to go to university and one is finishing her degree.

They’ve lived here longer than they lived in Ohio, and they struggle to imagine going back. It’s home, but it’s not. My husband has found the same thing here: things aren’t as he remembered, and the old adage that you can’t go home again proves true.

After 12 years, I feel like I still haven’t found my place here, and I’m not sure that anyone who emigrates ever does. My heart is in two places; with this decision I made a choice to miss weddings, funerals, birthdays and celebrations at home.

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This is what I think we could all do to remember: emigrating for whatever reason is an incredibly tough choice. I can’t see my family as often as I want to, but I can still go home – for many fleeing war and abuse, that is no longer an option.

While our move has been a huge lifestyle change full of cultural differences, I remember the many Ukrainians this nation has recently welcomed, who left everything behind in search of safety and were thrown into an uncertain future, which I will never know. Yes, it’s hard, but I had a far easier journey.

At the end of the day, all immigrants want to feel we belong and are welcomed, no matter our reasons for coming here, the strength of our accent, or the colour of our skin.

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I’m privileged – I know – and even though we chose this, I am an immigrant.