#American expatriates

[expatwhisperer]

Reverse Immigrant: Not Italian Enough For Italians, Not American Enough For Americans 

 Explores the challenges of reverse immigration and cultural belonging, detailing my experience as someone caught between two worlds at midlife. Reverse immigration is an increasingly common phenomenon, but the emotional and cultural complexities faced by individuals in this position often go unspoken. It blends personal storytelling with universal themes of cultural integration, alienation, and self-discovery in the context of Italian social structures, making it relatable for a wide audience.

 My heart pattered softly as butterfly wings as I stepped off the train in Milan Centrale. I visited Italy many times, but now, I came to plant myself as an Italian American dual citizen. Not as a seedling, those years were gone and I was fully formed, but rather as a reverse immigrant to propagate myself like a stem cutting in the soil of my ancestors who were driven out of Italy at the turn of the century by grim hunger and desparation, for a better life in America, toward something sharp and brilliant, like the glitter of a sword. I can only imagine what they would say about this decision exactly a hundred years after they risked their lives, suffered stinging prejudices, and did the backbreaking labor that built America, only watch me undo it in a single six-hour plane flight, but I had good reasons. The United States was no longer the country I grew up in and I don’t think they would recognize it either. American felt stifling to me, like an old basement crammed with relics from my past I no longer found useful. In Italy, I was rebuilding myself, personally and professionally, which did not translate into the life of my country. Perhaps they will forgive me because I returned to the motherland for the same reasons they went America, for the promise of a better life.

On an ordinary Tuesday in Paris, I received the second email in two years to teach English Language and Literature at an international school in Beddizole, a small town in the Lombardy region of Italy, just outside Brescia. Since leaving the United States with only the clothes on my back, I had lived in Paris for four years, but found it increasingly exasperating. Paris was beautiful, but the honeymoon seemed to end where French cynicism began. It has been said that the French live paradise, but they think they are living in hell, and it started to feel that way for me. Like a job. My language skills were steadily improving, and my quality of life was quite good compared to the United States, but I could not locate the promise of a joie de vivre, living joyously. Paris is a private club, and I was not invited. I was suffering from a mutated strain of Paris Syndrome, the disappointment I felt that my experience was not what I expected.

Since my “gray divorce” my motto has been to say “yes” to everything and so, I said yes, to this repeated job offer, even though I had already accepted a university position at a private French university. Once more, I packed my bags (I felt like I had one more move left in me) and hopped on a train to Milan, and then another to Brescia. The teaching job turned out to be a disaster that ended abruptly on Christmas Eve when I was summarily fired without just cause, but I’ve faced bigger dragons than this before in New York. During those cold and dark January weeks, I picked myself up despite the horror of my predicament and found better teaching work and I am thriving. Italy may not be perfect, but the Italians make me feel welcome, unlike the French, and that has made all the difference.

I am an Italian dual citizen and strangely enough, Italian-Americans invariably identify as Italian but we aren’t, at least not in the way that Italians understand it. To them, I am American with Italian roots, and there’s a difference. It should have triggered an identity crisis, but it didn’t. Still, I don’t feel American enough for Americans and not Italian enough for Italians. On the other hand, I’ve heard some Italians say I’m more Italian than they are because I have retained and understand the Italian traditions of a hundred years ago that they have not. It seems the question of cultural identity cuts both ways. More than anything else I regret, yet had nothing to do with, is that I cannot speak Italian fluently (yet). Hunger drove my ancestors in a hurry like gathering clouds to America and with it came a clear sky of gratitude which they expressed by insisting my parents speak English. This gratitude, quickened by pride, resulted in a great language loss by me and a daily source of embarrassment. I was raised by Italians and I know many Italian ways, attitudes, behaviors and even a handful of Neapolitan words, but I do not speak the language very well (yet) and so, to Italians, I’m not really Italian. The ancient Greek word βάρβαρος (bárbaros) meant “babbler.” To the Greek ear, someone who did not speak the Greek language babbled, producing the onomatopoeic sound “bar bar bar” which became bárbaros, and later barbaria in Latin. They thought, if you do not speak my language, you are not one of us and you are a barbarian. This gaping deficiency places me squarely in that cultural netherworld where I am neither Italian enough for the Italians nor American enough for the Americans. At the moment, I try to cover my shame with humor and say that I speak advanced babytalk, but I am diligently taking Italian lessons to rid myself of that indignity. I try to be gentle with myself and remember that neuroplasticity decreases with age and I am learning as fast as I can. Italians think I am missing out on a lot, and maybe they’re right, but I’ve had enough deep conversations in my life to know there isn’t much that’s new in the way of everyday discussion. Secretly, I don’t mind these moments of my zen silence where I can observe the locals in their natural habitat. It’s my guilty pleasure of maturity and the torrent of transcript chatter, like prices are too high, can’t believe she did that, this weather is awful, I’m so tired, I hate my job, my boss is a ass, and so on, is often predictable. That’s not to say that my daily struggles as an expat immigrant can be compared to someone who is a political, climate, or war refugee immigrant. I cannot know what level of trauma or culture shock they have experienced, what unexpressed grief and loss they have endured, but I do feel the occasional waves of guilt for leaving my kids (who are now adults and have their own life and actually applaud my lifestyle). Today, I regret nothing and I am content with my choices.

At the same time, choices often come with a price and the promise of a better life has cost me my old one. Losses add up incalculably, like attempting to number the waves on the shore of a limitless sea. In the six years I’ve lived abroad, in Paris and now Brescia, I have crossed one ocean and six time zones. I have lived in two different countries and six different apartments.  Missed three weddings, four funerals, and two christenings I could not attend, and dozens of birthdays. Lived through a global pandemic. Received four COVID vaccines. Been scammed twice. One, which required me to file a law suit. Filled out one serious police report and one minor. I’ve been in the hospital twice. Locked myself out once. I’ve cried in the shower hundreds of times. Missed four Christmases and Thanksgivings, and five Mother’s Days. I also missed attending my daughter’s college graduation in person but that was because of the pandemic. Heard about three divorces. Acquired two national health care cards and lost my American driver’s license because it expired. Been told it was not possible when it was, too many times to count. Experienced countless days feeling lost and lonely. Felt confused and anxious, not always, but often enough. I have been treated many, many times like I am less intelligent than I am because I’m American until I was able to prove differently. I’ve made lots of new friends, good, fiercely loyal friends, and then they moved away or I did. Every day I can’t express myself the way I want to and I feel like I am much smarter in English, so much funnier but those around me will have no idea. For one year, I thought I knew how to ask where the toilet was in Italian, only to discover I had been saying it incorrectly all along. Every day I have had to relearn how life works. I’ve had some of the most intense relationships, sexual experiences, and emotional feelings of my life. I have had four teaching jobs and been fired from one without just cause which is really scary as a woman, alone and broke in a foreign country. I have had a complete change of career from Intercultural Trainer and Expat Career Coach to English Language and Literature professor. I’ve gone to uncountable resturants, bars, café, concerts, clubs, and dance events along the Seine. Drank hundreds of bottles of wine. Traveled as far as Norway and as far south as the Greek Islands. I’ve done dozens of things I thought I would never do but, to take a line from Fight Club, “It is only when you lose everything that we are free to do anything.” I cannot tell you when is the right time to take action to change your life, or leave the country, but as Dorris Lessing said, “ Whatever you’re meant to do, do it now, the conditions are always impossible.”

I am American by birth, Italian by blood and residency, but at sixty-two and divorced with two grown children, I am comfortable enough in my own skin to accept these, and many other scratchy certainties. Eventually, I will become more proficient and perhaps the Italians will feel more comfortable with me because at the moment, they don’t know what to do with me. There is no model for a modern, middle-aged woman who knows she has another another life in her, especially in a country like Italy where ageism and sexism are prevalent, where women often have a less power and agency despite the veneer of education, occupation, or income.

Old ways are fossilized in stoney tradition. A Sicilian friend of mine whose family immigrated with their four kids from Sicily to the States when he was about ten, told me, nothing ever changes in Italy, especially not Italian ways. I didn’t quite fully grasp what he meant at the time, perhaps because I was young and couldn’t comprehend the idea that nothing could change because I was raised in the newest, new world, Southern California, a place synonymous with change. To him, Italy was the “old country” while I perceived it as a dazzling completeness of beauty, but the example he gave was simple: that Italian farmer has been drawing water from a well for the last hundred years, and that’s the way he will continue to get his water for the next hundred. Maybe it was a bit of an exaggeration, but he wasn’t wrong. For example, when I told him I received my Italian citizenship ID card, he cracked, ha! And it’s still issued on flimsy paper I bet, and then I began to understand what he was trying to tell me about the well. The Italian ID card has been in paper form for the last eighty seven years and was one of the last to go modern in the EU. The project of an electronic identity card began in 1997 and is finally a plastic card with an electronic chip. Getting things done here can feel as slow as waves rolling in, long and lazy, like sea-worn travelers.

Perhaps what I represent to Italians, and my students in particular, is uniquely made of Italian American DNA; a photo negative of their unmet dreams spirited by Italian Americans like Fiorello La Guardia, Mario Cuomo, and Giannini who rebuilt San Francisco and created the Bank of America; Geraldine Ferraro, Madonna, and Nancy Pelosi, sons and daughters of immigrants who built their dreams in the United States for the sake of others. There are second acts in America and this is an example of how mine is playing out in Italy. Maybe it’s my third.

Hemingway said there are all kinds of hunger. Memory is a hunger. Perhaps I was headstrong and foolish to return to my ancestral home, but I was driven for as long as I can remember to Italy because I had an insatiable appetite to satisfy the strong memory of family experiences that accompanied me all my life like an unwavering, loyal friend; driven by a malnourished soul few Americans can comprehend. On the other hand, I inherited the nourishing quality of Neapolitan resourcefulness: Arrangiarsi meaning to “make do” and figure it out yourself, and this character trait, whether born of personality or genetics or both, has served me well as an expatriate immigrant. Americans would call it as self-reliance, but whenever I am suffering from the mental, emotional, or physical exhaustion that comes from the stress and frustration of a life in significant transition, I lean on these attributes and the samsonite strength of my ancestors, rather than scattering it in agitation, from people who courageously crossed an ocean when it was unlikely they strayed far from their own villages, like Margliano or Sciscianno. Relatives who suffered from the tyranny of poverty and hunger; a desperate force that hurled them on to ships, leaving everyone and everything they once knew, behind. Once, when I was much younger, I asked my maternal grandfather, Saverio Mascia, why he left Italy and he tilted his head down a little mournfully at the imaginary dirt of his youth, swiping his shoe back and forth like a weary windshield wiper and told me, because there was nothing to eat. In the silence between us, I sensed there was trauma in that reply and I’ve probably recieved some part of that unwelcome inheritance. He moved back and forth frequently between Chicago and California duirng my childhood, like an indecisive waiter, unable to commit to either place for very long. Perhaps he was searching for a “geographic solution” in the expectation that moving would cure the profound melancholy that haunted him.

I come from a long line of Italian farmers. Saverio or “Sam” was a farmer and his father was a farmer, and so on, as far back as I could document in the geneological descriptions. As a landless, post-unification Mezzogiorno peasant, life offered up a chronic plate of hardship, exploitation, and violence, particularly around the “triangle of death” outside Naples of Acerra, Nola, and Marigliano, the latter where my grandmother, Pasqualina was born. The soil was barren, yielding little; malnutrition and disease were prevalent during the Great Wave of Immigration between 1880 – 1924 when nearly a million Italians came to the United States, half of them between 1900 – 1010 when my ancestors came[1] which now makes up the nation’s fifth largest ethnic group in America. The reasons people immigrate are ususally this dire, or worse, but in my case although I was not starving, it felt that way, emotionally. Most migrants and refugees leave because they are desperate or live in fear, or both; forcably displaced because of persecution, conflict, violence, and unspeakable human rights violations. People who are desperate do desperate things because death is like a predator, chasing them from behind, and instead of fighting, they flee from it, too terrified to fight back. I left because I was tired of the quarreling at home, with the fallen ideals of my country, and a dozen other reasons strewn on the floor but my exodus was a choice and I believed I could, as a divorced, middle-aged woman on a fixed income, make a lateral move that would stabilize, if not improve, the standard of living I was accustomed to, but I could not explain this concept adequately enough to my American friends and family. I suffered from exulansis, the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness. And, I refused to be buried in New Jersey.

Sam arrived, first at Ellis Island. I know that because I saw his name commemorated on the immigrant wall. He continued on to Chicago, presumably because he had friends and distant relatives there, not unlike me when I first moved to Paris before coming to Italy, but we American expats don’t congeal into the jellied “little” enclaves like other relationship-oriented people. We are more individualistic and less likely to form tribes into a coherent diaspora abroad because that’s how we’re wired. He was unskilled, illiterate, and did not speak English. I am educated, skilled, and don’t speak much Italian (yet), but my advantages don’t make the foreign feel more any more familiar, they are only less worse, and cultural adaptation takes time. The difference is, he could become American and I am unsure if I will, or want, to become Italian. Perhaps I will be Italian-ish. He dug ditches and laid labyrinthian pipes at the feet of Chicago’s big shoulders. I reinvented my career as an English Language and Literature teacher, however we both felt the need to escape; for him, from a semi-feudal society that increasingy held little in the way of opportunity; for me, from a country that has veered off the rails into casino capitalism and gone mad politically. (Under Italian law, I have the right to asylum from an undemocratic country!) According to Freedom House, the America has experienced a 16-year decline in global freedom. The US score in Freedom in the World fell by 11 points on a 100-point scale in the decade from 2010 to 2020, with an accelerated deterioration of 6 points during the presidency of Donald Trump. In Freedom in the World 2022, which covers the events of 2021, gains in the US score were counterbalanced by declines and the total remained at 83. That put the country on par with Panama, Romania, and South Korea, and about 10 points below historical peers like Germany and the United Kingdom.[2] His thickly calloused hands built Chicago’s infrastructure and I unveil a new world perspective to my gregarious Italian students who are unintentionally ensnared in the old world. At the end of the immgration wave, he was one of five million Italians who came to America and I am one of five million American expatriates who live scattered around the world, one of the sixteen-thousand living in Italy.

Back and forth, Italians and their descendents have left Italy, settled elsewhere, and some, like me, have returned to the motherland, by a zionian pull so strong that some of us must go back, but it is not a paradise, and it is my impression that one day, this gorgeous and beloved country may become one of the least ethnicnally identifiable, culturally in the world[3]. It is rowing upstream against a strong downward current towards an epic demographic crisis; a perfect storm of an aging population, declining birth rates, and a brain drain. The aging population is called the “Silver Tsunami” with over half the population over 45 and one of the world’s longest lifespans. The low “fertility trap” or negative birth rate is twelve deaths for every 7 births. The fuga di cervelli or “brain drain” is the working age population leaving to be employed in other countries, however 30-50 percent of them returned (called the ritornati) so the trend is positive. The millenial exodus could be caused by many factors, but perhaps the most obvious is the lack of opportunity, employment, and chronic bureaucracy; a slow justice system and cumbersome tax regulations. However, like many other countries thanks to the pandemic, Italy has attempted to “trampoline” to become more modern and competitive. As a teacher, I hope I am part of this effort by exposing students to as many new ideas and perspectives as possible; to prevent them from becoming part of the fossilized Italy trifecta. That, and phrasal verbs.   

Italy is breathtaking, but this mozzafiato is a double-edged sword, preserved, or petrified, across landscapes, architecture, monuments, and basilicas, yet at the same time, it reflects the paralysis to change social systems, especially around income inequality and deep-seated sexism[4]. For Italians who are reluctant to change, it took, and will probably only take again sadly, another authoritarian figure like Mussolini (who built roads, bridges, and buildings) to retool the nation's economy. One look at the architecture of those fascist style buildings he built during his dictatorship, large and symmetric with sharp non-rounded edges, will tell you that this was revolutiony. One day, as I stood in the middle of the grand Piazza Dell’Loggia in Brescia where I live, an Italian from Udine told me, look at the difference between this post office he built and the old palazzo architecture beside it. To Italians at that time, this was New York City. It represented both innovation and a reverential nod to their Roman roots, and it was way ahead of its time compared to the medieval architecture that had stood like vigilant centurions for centuries. He was the future. They succumed to his authority not because they liked his politics so much as they needed someone like him to get things done. I never thought of it that way. Perspective is always about who’s telling the story.

To underscore this notion that change happens slowly in Italy, it was only recently in 1861 that it became a country. It is second only to the United States (1776) as one of the newest old countries to be formed which could not, and would not have thought to, unify itself. It is a combination of nearly 20 nations states that shared neither language (for the most part) customs, nor tradition. Italians were accustomed to living next to, but not in harmony or unity with, other Italians. They could, however, rely on two things: family and di arrangiarsi, and barring that, particularly in the South, below Naples including Sicily, the mafia stepped in to fill the void of law and order to provide “protection” where the state did not. The forgotton South took matters, for better or for worse, into their own hands when it came to law and order or economic prosperity until recently. Change happens at a gacial pace, a testiment to the often obdurate and defiant Italian mentality. It’s fitting to note that I live in the heart and soul of old Brescia, next to a Roman temple dating back to the first century AD during the Roman Empire. What’s important is that there are pre-Romanesque ruins below that site from the Bronze and Iron Age. Italian ways seem as old as their layered history. That’s not to say they’re not spontaneous which is a contradiction to what I’ve observed, and they are, but I think their spontenaity is born as a reaction to this rigidity, rather than an anomaly and they can be surprisingly flexible when it comes to la dolce vita or living life in the moment, enjoying the sweetness of doing nothing, which I’ve become spectacularly good at. If Italians, or other cultures, contain contraditions, then they contain the multitudes of humanity, of both the ideal cultural values and the possible negative perceptions.

What will happen to Italian culture and identity as a result of their history and current transition into the 21st century is anyone’s guess during this demographic winter. Who is Italian, what makes an Italian, or Italian American? What will Italy or Italians look like in the future given the current immigration dilemmas and short-termed solutions, like the 1 Euro housing scheme desgined to attract people, foreigners mostly, to revive abandoned hilltop villages, who can tell, but I suspect they will not be solved by selling off real estate which implies a doubt in the country’s ability to get at the root of the problem, systemically. When there is a vacuum of decision-making power, what takes the place may not be in the country’s best interest and it can be vulnerable to a cultural, socio-political malware that has nothing to do with the ideals, identity, or interests of Italians. Like the dinosaurs, Italy may look like it’s about to become extinct but perhaps the glimmer of hope may lay in their fossilization, in the amber of the ritornati; the returning millenials and Italian Americans who embody the ideals and work ethic they were able to demonstrate and execute successfully elsewhere, without the deterrant nuissance of tradition.

The contradiction that struck me most with remarkable surprise, was what I saw so clearly in myself for the first time; how Italian I was and was not. The Southen Italian I am is a dutiful mix of compliance to food, music, and the dialect of my immigrant ancestors from a hundred years ago. A time capsule preserved by sheer force of my memory’s carabiners to things which no longer exist particularly in the modern, dynamic, energetic North. A southern persona that is grossly mythologized by superstition (like the corna, cornetto, and malocchio) and of course crime, an idea that author and former Minister of Finance of Greece, Yanis Varoufakis has corrected because while the South is corrupt, it is low-level corruption, cheap corruption, whereas the north practices industrial scale, systematic, beautifully designed, high-tech corruption[5]. It was a staggering surprise for me during the entry phase that began with shock and ended with forelornness. I was not who I thought I was, ethnically. On the other hand, there is also a smugness I feel because I know, just as the arhictecture and Italian ways are set in stone, so is my Italian-ness. To return to my roots and to embrace its traditions. Italians may feel a sharp pang of regretful wonder at my particular species of Italian American, but I’d like to think I might be that minuscule grain of sand to an unsuspecting oyster, one that could contribute a slight pearl of knowledge and experience to my Italian students who might think differently about their world because I exposed them to the new one. Perhaps to prevent it from becoming “Like white sepulchers, beautiful on the outside but filled with dead men’s bones on the inside.”

 Notes:

1.     https://www.pbs.org/destinationamerica/usim_wn_noflash_5.html#:~:text=Italian%20emigration%20was%20fueled%20by,malnutrition%20and%20disease%20were%20widespread.

2.     https://italicsmag.com/2020/12/01/why-millennials-are-moving-back-to-italy/

3.     https://apnews.com/article/europe-business-health-coronavirus-pandemic-italy-fde87cd63c7c388f2684cd0450b882f4

  [1]https://www.pbs.org/destinationamerica/usim_wn_noflash_5.html#:~:text=Italian%20emigration%20was%20fueled%20by,malnutrition%20and%20disease%20were%20widespread

[2] https://freedomhouse.org/report/freedom-world/2022/global-expansion-authoritarian-rule/reversing-decline-democracy-united-states

[3] https://www.theguardian.com/world/2023/oct/07/italy-births-far-right-demographic-winter?CMP=Share_iOSApp_Other

[4] https://www.theguardian.com/global-development/2023/jul/16/any-victim-is-a-liar-sexual-violence-scandals-in-italy-expose-deep-seated-sexism

[5] https://fb.watch/nhbdwB9tQq/

[rodspurethoughts]

"The Impact of US-Philippine Defense Agreement on BPO Industry and Economic Growth"

The recently signed Enhanced Defense Cooperation Agreement (EDCA) between the United States and the Philippines has brought about unexpected economic growth for the Southeast Asian nation. The agreement, which was signed in 2014, focuses on strengthening the military alliance between the two countries, but it has also had a significant impact on the Philippine economy. One of the key…

[gagirlleaving]

Greyhound Doesn't Go To Mexico?

I looked on the site, and on FlixBus' site. Both companies show dots on the map in Mexico. But, you pick a city and there is no schedule. On any day. I went through the calendar in Dec, Jan, and up to Feb. And I spot-checked June, which is our target date. No schedule.

The other downside is our 3 cats. Apparently, if it's not a service dog, you can't take them.

So, apparently, our only option is to fly and pay $250 per cat. That's as much as cheap tickets for each of us one-way to Cancun, if we could afford to schedule them now. They'll be more expensive later.

Also, if we do one-way tickets, that's an automatic extra detailed search of our bags. But, I'm disabled, and I think that will flag us anyway. We're not planning to carry anything passengers aren't supposed to carry on a plane anyway, but going through TSA is miserable.

So is that many hours on the bus, so I think the hassle at the airport is worth it.

I'll definitely take my wheelchair, and I'm thinking about taking my shower chair. I'm worried about the wheelchair getting damaged. Medicaid is almost impossible now. Not that I have any illusions about keeping it. When we go to Mexico, I will lose it, just as if I moved to another state.

And, Maggie loses her job, because she's paid to take care of me.

So, we'll have to live on my $1000 a month from Social Security. I could get a job that pays under $1600 and still keep my SSDI, but I'm not sure if it's still not converted to regular Social Security or if that matters. Frankly, I'm scared to ask until the house sells and we're closer to leaving.

I did look at AirBNB. There are cheap places to live for a few months in Mexico that are on intercity bus lines to airports.

I also looked at bugs. There are lots of scorpions and wasps, but in cities, not as bad as in remote areas. Mosquitos are the main worry. I'll be packing a mosquito net for sure.

I'm also concerned about the lack of air conditioning, but people talk about buildings built for good ventilation and relief from the heat. I'll probably be fine.

The house I grew up in didn't have AC. We had a big fan that lived in the kitchen window. And an oscillating floor fan in the living room. Summers were miserable. I didn't get used to that. Maybe healthy people do, but I never was healthy.

As a disabled person, I'll have trouble in Mexico, just like I have here. Lots of older buildings have steps. We lived in apartments they swore were 'handicapped-accessible'. Nope. We had to buy a ramp and boy, they are expensive! Counters were one height. They did have those lever doorknobs. They didn't help me. Doorways were not 32", so I had to live in the living room.

We'll just deal with it, like we usually do.

Are you thinking of leaving the USA? What have you found out so far?

[shodansbabygirl]

Someone remind me to remake that poll with a 7 day timer

[centrepiecefurnishing]

Why Singaporeans Should Consider Reupholstery for Their High-End Sofas

For Singaporeans, reupholstering high-end sofas combines practicality with luxury. It offers a cost-effective, sustainable,

Reupholstering high-end sofas is an excellent choice for Singaporeans, offering a blend of sustainability, cost-efficiency, and personalized style. Here are several compelling reasons to opt for reupholstery: 1. Cost-Effectiveness High-Quality Sofas: High-end sofas are significant investments. Reupholstering allows you to preserve the structural integrity and quality of an expensive piece…

[bottegapowerpoint]

Frederick Carl Frieseke, Bal-Bullier, Paris

[pmamtraveller]

PORTRAIT OF MADAME X /1884/ by JOHN SINGER SARGENT

“Madame X” is a portrait of Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau, or Madame Gautreau. Madame Gautreau was an American expatriate originally from Louisiana. She had moved to Paris, France, with her family when she was eight years old. She was renowned for her beauty and sophistication.

Madame Gautreau was painted at the request of Sargent himself, who hoped he could use her popularity to increase his notoriety. Many artists sought to paint Madame Gautreau, as they were enamoured by her unusual beauty, but she had denied most of them.

When this painting was first shown at the Paris Salon of 1884, Madame Gautreau’s right strap was depicted as fallen off her shoulder. The strap, the amount of bare skin visible, and the heavy makeup on her face resulted in a mostly negative review from critics. The public viewed it as flaunting her immorality.

Sargent, trying to safeguard his reputation, repainted her strap so that it was back on her shoulder. Regardless, this scandal ruined his reputation in Paris. Shortly after, Sargent gave up the city of light and relocated to London, England, where he stayed and finally acquired the respect as a portrait artist that he was seeking.

Seven years later, in 1891, Madame Gautreau was painted again. This portrait, by the French artist Gustave Courtois, displays her in a very similar manner, in profile with a dress with one shoulder strap down. The dress, however, is white. Interestingly, this painting was a success when it was unveiled, perhaps speaking to the changing social norms of the time.

[gauguinhater69]

Guys, I’ve had Thoughts.

House’s childhood isn’t really explored in a whole lot of depth during the show. The only details we get are some brief mentions of his father’s abuse and the fact that House grew up moving around a lot due to his father serving as a Marine Corps aviator.

I’m pretty sure the only countries that are directly mentioned in the show as being places that House grew up in are the States, Japan, the Philippines, and Egypt. Both of House’s parents are American, as far as I am aware? He also mentions having a Dutch grandmother in One Day, One Room, but I can’t remember if that’s ever mentioned again or if he just said that for the plot. Regardless, this makes House a Third Culture Kid (or TCK).

Third Culture Kid is a term used to describe people who grow up in a culture that's different from their parents' culture or the culture of their country of nationality. TCKs are often children of expatriate workers, including members of the military (like House), or they can also be the result of transnational marriages. TCKs often develop an identity that's based on relationships with people rather than places. 

I feel like this aspect of House’s upbringing explains a lot about his character and why he is The Way He Is. However, I think it was kind of glossed over in canon and could have been dealt with in a really interesting way, but instead they were just kind of like, “Haha, he read manga because army.”

Whether it was intentional by the writers or not, a lot of the ways House thinks, acts, and interacts with other characters is reflective of a TCK childhood. As a TCK myself, I unironically find House to be one of the best-written TCK characters I have ever come across, despite it not being explicitly discussed in the show (genuinely the only other TCK character in mainstream media that I can think of at the moment is Cady Heron from Mean Girls, who is not a good example, sorry girl).

The most compelling aspects of House’s personality, which I believe make him a well-developed representation of what it’s like to grow up as a third culture kid, include:

A complex relationship with authority and rules: TCKs often grow up in environments where they must navigate different sets of rules and authority figures, which could lead to a heightened skepticism about institutional authority. House's disregard for rules, his insubordination, and his tendency to challenge authority figures such as Cuddy, Vogler, Dr. Nolan, and even Wilson at times seem like an indication of a deeper mistrust of systems and structures. House appears to almost compulsively rebel against structure and situations where he is not completely in control, even if he knows that people are trying to help him, as seen in his time at Mayfield.

Alienation of self and others: I feel like this in particular is very central to House’s character and the show. He is constantly pushing the people who care about him away, like Stacy, Cuddy, Wilson, and the Ducklings. He avoids relationships (both romantic and platonic) and emotional connections with the people around him and believes that he is better off relying on himself alone. Many TCKs experience a sense of never truly fitting in anywhere and tend to alienate themselves (whether on purpose or not) because of it.

Detachment and critical thinking: House’s whole thing as a diagnostician is being able to see things from unconventional angles, and his sharp, often brutal, critical thinking is a reflection of this adaptive skill. However, this also contributes to his emotional detachment, as he prioritizes logic and objective analysis over subjective or cultural norms, distancing him from emotional involvement. Being exposed to a variety of different cultures, people, and cultural norms often contributes to TCKs developing the ability to view situations from multiple perspectives and come up with unusual solutions. This could also contribute to House deep desire to figure everything out, this includes the medical mysteries he solves, but also he needs to understand the actions and motivations of all the people around him. He wants to understand and know everything because this gives him a sense of control.

Deep need for control: Growing up in different places, where cultural norms and expectations may have shifted, could have made House feel like he had to assert control over his immediate surroundings to maintain some sense of stability. The trauma he experienced, particularly with his father’s abuse and emotional neglect, likely influenced this desire for control, as he may have associated control with safety and predictability. In addition to this, many TCKs create rigid systems or behavioural processes to compensate for a lack of “home”. House’s fractured sense of identity and personal trauma, which developed as a result of his experiences as a TCK, likely contributed to his need for control in all aspects of his life.

I also think these are all reasons why House is so drawn to Wilson. While Wilson is absolutely as much of a freak as House, he is the most stable and constant thing in House’s life (even more than his job as a doctor is). While medicine is extremely important to House, he works at the hospital on and off, unable to continue his practice while he is at Mayfield, and he ultimately gives up medicine entirely for Wilson. Through all the ups and downs of House’s life, Wilson is there, no matter how hard House tries to drive him away.

House values his relationship with Wilson above pretty much all other things in his life, because Wilson is one of the only constants in House’s life, which is something that House had been lacking before Wilson. House likely had developed the idea that relationships are fleeting due to his constant upheavals as a child, and this may be part of the reason why he is constantly pushing others away to try and save himself the pain of losing people.

However, Wilson keeps coming back no matter what. Despite the fact that House is rude and brash, despite the unhinged pranks, the borderline criminal acts, after House stole Wilson’s prescription pad, after House played a role in the death of Wilson’s girlfriend, again and again Wilson comes back.

I’m going insane, and I think this is very nearly incomprehensible. Does anyone else see the vision?

[mapsontheweb]

Christians in the Middle East

Christians in the Middle East, one of the oldest religious communities in the region, face significant challenges today.

Once thriving across countries like Iraq, Syria, and Egypt, their numbers have sharply declined due to conflict, persecution, and displacement. The rise of extremist groups has further endangered their communities, particularly in areas controlled few years ago by ISIS and other militant factions.

The largest Christian communities in the Middle East are found in countries like Egypt, where the Coptic Orthodox Church represents a significant portion of the population. Lebanon also has a substantial Christian presence, particularly among Maronites, while Syria and Iraq have historically housed large Assyrian and Chaldean communities, though their numbers have dwindled due to recent wars.

A different case is the one of Qatar, it’s  Christian community is a diverse mix of European, North and South American, Asian, Middle Eastern and African expatriates. In 2022, they formed around 14% of the total population. Most of them are European, Indian and Filipino.

Despite all these challenges, Christian groups continue to play a vital role in the cultural and religious fabric of the region, striving to maintain their traditions and protect their rights amid ongoing instability.

by the.world.in.maps/instagram

[antonio-m]

“Man reading”, c.1879 by John Singer Sargent. American expatriate artist in Florence. oil on canvas

[wiisagi-maiingan]

There are currently people in my notes arguing about whether Marjane Satrapi, an Iranian expatriate who lived through the Iranian Revolution and whose family and friends faced violence and persecution (including executions!) from the Islamic Republic of Iran, had the right to compare the Iranian and American governments. I think everyone on this website needs to log off for a few days.

[milla-frenchy]

Empty spaces

3k3 | Javier Peña x reader ; Steve Murphy x reader Summary: Javi walks away from you, and you don't know how to handle the situation anymore Warnings: 18+ mdni. Infidelity, angst, light dacryphilia, oral (f/m), masturbation (m), piv. No age specified. a/n: as always, thank you so much Kate @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog for correcting me, and for the last minutes adjustments 💕🫶 Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates The tittle is from some lyrics of Affection by Between friends ao3 | masterlist

Steve looked at his partner. They had worked together for years and had faced the worst. They had supported each other every time Escobar had escaped from them, every time they had found themselves in the ambassador's office. They had spent countless evenings in bars. And despite everything, Steve couldn't help but betray him.

You had met Connie while working at the same clinic as her, and you two quickly got along well. You were both American, and your situation as expatriates and partners of DEA agents had brought you together. The four of you, with Javi and Steve, had become quite close, often going out to bars or restaurants, or had dinners at home. You really liked Steve. Since then, Connie had left, and Steve was your only friend in Bogota. You often confided in him when you felt the need and supported him as well since he was alone.

One evening, you went to his house, worried and jaded, because Javi was moving further and further away from you. Or rather, from anything that wasn't related to his job.

Escobar was an obsession and Carillo's murder had broken something in him. He stayed later in the bars, and when he came home, he smelled of whisky and frustration. You tried to help him, to talk about it, but he kept getting more and more withdrawn. You no longer waited for him to go to bed, and he no longer woke you up as often as before when he came home in the early morning. For a long time before, you had loved feeling him lying between your thighs while you were barely awake, covering you with kisses, flooding you with his “mmmm… cariño, I missed you so much today. You missed this cock?” as you would respond with “oh god, Javi, yes! Yes, fuck me, please.” And he would sink into you, making you scream on his shaft, to the point where sometimes he had to cover your mouth with his hand, to prevent the neighbors from pounding on the apartment door, while he was pounding you on the bed.

​He had never got tired of eating your pussy, but now he dove between your thighs less and less. He even asked you to get up, one evening when you knelt between his knees to blow him, to make him forget everything else.

It was that evening that you left, first driving through the streets of Bogota. And without really realizing it, you found yourself in front of Steve's house, hesitant before knocking on the door. You told him everything, no longer holding back your tears.

Steve hesitated before hugging you. “Fuck,” he thought. He wasn't going to leave you like that, without consoling you, when you already felt rejected at home. Your cries gradually gave way to sniffles, and his cock twitched. “Fuck,” he thought a second time. He wanted to turn slightly away, not wanting you to notice his bulge. But you clung to him reflexively, afraid he would move away, and he felt you freeze.

“I’m sorry, I…” he started to say.

You looked up at him, and both of you lost your mind. Your wet eyes made him lose his mind. A moment, frozen in time, turned into a searing kiss, so impatient and urgent, that none of you stopped while you undressed. He held you close to have your bare skin against his, your breasts against his torso. And finally, you looked at each other. A moment in time, wondering if you were really going to cross that line. Steve broke the silence, asking “what do you want, baby?”

“Wanna feel you Steve. Please. Make me feel something.”

He nodded and grabbed your hand, leading you to the couch, where he asked you to lie down. Kneeling on the floor, he took off your panties, so slowly that you felt yourself melt, and he spread your thighs to open you up for him. The moonlight was illuminating the room, and he looked at your body. He placed his hand on your cheek, and slid it gently down your neck, between your breasts, and watched your nipples harden after his touch. His breathing accelerated, while his hand continued to move down, to your belly that he caressed, then your crotch. He placed his hand flat on your pussy and felt your warmth against his palm. You arched your back, feeling him against you, seeing his gaze on you. He wanted you, he really wanted you, and you no longer knew what it felt like, until now, on his couch. You realized how much you missed it.

He moved his thumb up along your folds, after having covered it with your wetness, until he reached your clit that he gently caressed. He looked at your body and your skin, the way your hairs stood up under his touch. Your back arched again, when his mouth covered your pussy. He licked delicately between your folds, feeling you flinch against his tongue, and took your hand in his. As if to reassure you, or to reassure himself, he didn’t know. His heart was beating so fast, it felt like it was going to explode.

His tongue entered you further, licking up all the wetness that flowed from your core. He sometimes felt it dripping from his chin, and became more and more intoxicated by you, his nose brushing perfectly against your clit. Your free hand squeezed one of your breasts, and you matched the movements of your hips with his tongue, rolling them against him.

Steve pushed two fingers into your pussy and slid his tongue up to your clit. He looked at you, as the tip tickled where his nose was a few seconds ago. Your eyes were closed, and this vision of you, lit by the moon, made him obsessed. He kept fingering you, slowly, and then placed his lips around your clit, sucking gently, and you moaned. He pulled his fingers out and stroked himself with your wetness, before he started gently jerking his hard as steel cock, matching his rhythm to his tongue, now swirling on your clit.

He parted his lips for a few seconds, still fucking you with his fingers, and said “I ain’t gonna fuck you. Ain’t gonna cross that line. But you’re gonna cum on my tongue.” His tongue on you again, he squeezed your hand tighter, and his wrist tightened on his shaft too.

“Steve…”

“I know, baby, I know. I can feel it coming. Let it happen, baby. Let go for me.”

Yet, he couldn't stop himself from moving his tongue from your clit to your folds, even though he knew it delayed your orgasm. He wanted to lick all your wetness coming out of your soaked hole. To eat you all. Until you grabbed his head with your hand, making him keep his tongue on your clit.

“Wanna come Steve, please. Please, make me come.”

He squeezed your hand tighter, jerked himself harder, his tongue now focusing on your clit. He heard you moan louder, and your hips tilted up towards his mouth. You tensed one last time as your orgasm hit you, and he came as you said his name, sending his cum all over his thighs and on the couch.

He caressed the soft skin of your belly, until your breathing finally calmed and returned to normal, occasionally lapping at your pussy, still thirsty for your taste. He stopped before overstimulating you, and you sat up. He reached up and kissed you, running his hand along your cheek.

When you went back home, Javi was sleeping. You slipped into the sheets, very carefully, so as not to wake him up. Guilt started twisting your stomach. He placed his hand on your belly in his sleep, and your throat tightened.

The days passed without anything changing between Javi and you. You tried not to think too much about that night at Steve’s. Javi had told you that things had been a bit tense between them, and that they had come to blows. 

You and Steve hadn't seen each other again, until the day when you were waiting for Javi in your car, in the DEA parking lot. He walked over to you when he saw you, and asked kindly how you were going. You smiled shyly at him, telling him that it was pretty much okay. But it wasn’t, and he knew it. Javi arrived, and Steve wished you a good evening as he left for his car.

You came home, and the evening passed almost in silence. You looked at Javi, his eyebrows furrowed. You were both so close and so far away, a distance that seemed insurmountable. When you were ready to go to bed, he took his jacket and told you he was going out. The door closed behind him and for two minutes you stood at the bedroom door. “Fuck you, Javi”, you thought, grabing your jacket and slamming the door behind you when you left the appartment.

“What happened?” Steve asked when he opened the door.

“He fucking left. I was going to bed, and he told me he was going out.”

You took your pack of cigarettes and lit one, before sitting down on the couch next to him. “I don’t know what to do anymore, Steve. I understand your job is stressful, I really do. And this fucking Escobar is always getting away. But I would like to be there to help him, you know? I can help him more than the whiskey he drinks in bars.”

You shook your head and tears gathered at the corner of your eyes but you quickly wiped them away.

“Javi told me you two had a fight. What happened?"

“Photos that I kept in the office ended up in the wrong hands. I thought Javi had leaked them.”

“Steve, come on. You know he’d never do that to you.”

“Yeah, like he would never think I’d - ” He cut himself off before finishing his sentence, shaking his head without looking at you, but you knew too well what he was thinking. You lit a second cigarette, immediately after putting out the first.

“Why did you react like that? And cut the crap.”

In a low voice, he said “you know why.” He looked at you and it made you regret asking. There was too much affection in his eyes.

“Because I care about you. Because you’re not happy. Because if we were together I wouldn’t be in a bar right now.”

You frowned when you heard his words. “Fuck. I shouldn’t have asked, I’m sorry.”

You got up and went to the window.

“Have you heard from Connie?”

“No. She’s been very clear last time. We're taking a break, at best. At worst, it's over.”

He joined you by the window, walking silently with his bare feet, and told you that maybe you should go home, that Javi might be worried. You nodded and brushed past him on your way to the front door but he grabbed your wrist. You stayed like that, side by side, without daring to look at each other for a few seconds, his hand frozen on your wrist.

“Tell me you want me to leave,” you whispered.

“I don’t want you to leave”, he replied. 

A few seconds passed before you spoke again, telling him that Javi and you hadn't had sex, since the other night. You turned to him, knowing you shouldn’t have told him that but unable to resist either.  You added, “I guess he didn’t want to. Neither did I. Was thinking about you.” Your voice was nothing more than a thin trickle that he could barely hear. 

This time you didn't hold back the tears that were rolling on your cheeks. His cock got hard, and he couldn’t help but stare into your watery eyes.

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to not go further than last time, you know…”

“Well I don’t think I want you to stop, Steve.”

You pressed yourself against him, your crotch against his, and you gasped when you felt his cock against you. His hands rested on your cheeks as your starving lips devoured each other, and your tongues mingled. Your hands were pressed against his back to hold him against you.

Still kissing him, your hands finally slid up to the nape of his neck and you heard him growl in your ear. You continued to roam his body, your hands slowly moving down his torso. You barely touched him the night before and this time you wanted to feel him under your fingers. You wanted to feel his skin and imprint the sensation in your mind. When your hands reached his waist, you pressed his body against yours and feeling his bulge made you moan into his mouth.

You slipped your hand in his sweatpants. All you wanted was to touch his cock, to feel every inch of him. Delicately, you took it in your hand before taking it out, then you slid his sweatpants down his thighs, and removed them entirely, while you knelt before him.

“You don’t have to….but shit, yeah…wanna feel your lips on my cock.”

You could see his cock in the shadow of the moon, and it was gorgeous. Long and thick, slightly curved. You ran your thumb over the slit, spreading the precum on the tip, before looking up at him and sucking your finger.

“Fuck, babe”, he said, and you smiled. You wanted to please him, and knowing that he wanted you, was craving you, made you drool even more in your panties. You took his tip in your mouth, your tongue gently swirling around its slit. Your hand squeezed his cock and your thumb caressed one of his balls. Your lips rounded around his shaft, your tongue pressed against his skin, you applied yourself to suck him, feeling him shiver in your mouth. When you were able to take him fully into your mouth, you stopped at the base of his shaft, letting his tip wiggle against the back of your throat. You heard him groan, as his hand squeezed your shoulder, and he whispered “wait, sugar please, uh…It's been a while since... this and I ain’t gonna last if you keep doin’ this.”

You stood up and he covered your cheeks with his hands, searching for your lips then your tongue hungrily, before grabbing your ass with his hands and pressing you against him. Then his fingers fought against the buttons of your blouse as you pulled his t-shirt over his head. When he took off your clothing, you wanted to unhook your bra, but he stopped you, saying "no lemme... lemme look at you. Please."

His voice was wavering and on the verge of breaking. You let your arms fall to your sides, while he ran his fingers from your neck to the roundness of your breasts, taking them in his hand while following their shape. He unhooked your bra, and his thumbs caressed your nipples, so delicately that they became even harder. His gaze left your breasts to meet yours, and all you saw was the fire burning there. He knelt down to remove your shoes, pants and panties, and he kissed your mound, making your clit twitch instantly as the memory of the previous night hadn't left you. His tongue slipped between your folds, and he groaned as he felt your wetness, his hands clenching on your ass. But quickly he stood up, and said “I need to fuck you baby, or I’m gonna lose my damn mind”, and you knew he meant it, deep inside.

Kissing you, he led you to his bed, where you lay on your back. Steve asked, “spread your legs for me” but he couldn’t wait and gently pushed them apart with his knee before settling between your thighs. He waited for a few seconds, searching for your eyes, but quickly grabbed his cock and pushed it into your entrance, as if he was afraid that you would change your mind, or scared to read the doubt in your eyes. He ran his hand over your cheek while you got used to his girth, but your need to feel him was too strong. Too urgent. You grabbed his ass to press him against you and moved your pelvis towards him, fucking yourself on his cock.

“Fuck, baby what ya doin’? Gonna hurt yourself.”

“I wanna feel you. Please, let me do it. Don’t let go of me, I can take it.”

“Ok ok, I won’t, I’m right here. I’m with you.” His eyebrows furrowed looking at you, as you couldn’t help but gasp, feeling every inch of his cock spreading your folds, but you wanted to feel him more, always more. Until he was balls deep inside you. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he pulled back before thrusting in again, pounding you into the mattress with slow but deep strokes. You didn’t take your eyes off each other, except for the rare moments where he kissed your forehead or your lips, his hand caressing your cheek. 

And you had forgotten it, this feeling. Of being desired, wanted. Your own desire to melt into someone else. He was giving you all of this in this moment, and you felt your heart flutter, as you were drinking up this long-forgotten feeling. Your hips now accompanied his, as if in a dance, as if you knew each other for years, intimately. But you didn’t, and it heightened your feelings tenfold. Your eyes were fixed on his, and you read in his furrowed eyebrows and his stare, the same perplexity that seized him, about your proximity.

“Fuck… yeah, keep moving your hips like this. Shit… gonna cum if you keep goin’, baby.”

“I won’t stop”, you murmured and stroked his biceps, then squeezed them with your hands to prevent him from escaping from your embrace.

“I need you to come, baby. Need to feel your pussy clench my cock,” he added, pressing his torso to yours, and you started to rub your clit against him. His face buried in your neck, and his hand resting on your cheek, he continued to fuck you, at a very slow pace this time, and you whimpered, “Steve, I’m so close…” just before you came on his shaft. “Fuck, baby… you’re coming so hard for me,” he managed to mumble. “Where do you want me?”

“Inside”, you breathed out. He didn't ask if you were sure, he knew you were. “Look at me…fuck, you’re takin’ me so good”, he groaned just before pulsing inside you. And you hugged him as tight as you were able to, already dreading his pulling away from you. Once you milked his cock, you felt his body relax over yours and he kissed your neck. You lay against each other without speaking, your fingers running up and down his forearm. When you sat up a few minutes later, he slipped his arms through an old shirt that he probably wore to sleep, without putting it on, and as you were about to get out of bed he pulled it over your head, to hold you against him. You looked at each other but it created a lump in your throat. “What now?”, you thought.

“What are we gonna do, Steve?”

“I don’t know, baby”, he replied, shaking his head slowly.

He released you and you got dressed, holding back the tears that appeared in the corners of your eyes.

When you got back to the apartment, Javi was lying on the couch smoking a cigarette, and he stood up looking at you with a worried look.

“Where have you been, cariño? I was worried.”

“Went out to get some fresh air. I’m going to bed, Javi.”

“Look, I’m sorry. I know I'm not there for you like I should be. But I will try, I promise.”

You nodded and went to bed, and as you lay there, his torso against your back, you hoped he wouldn't slip his hand into your panties, as Steve's cum was still dripping lightly from your pussy.

********************

Thank you for reading 🙏

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated ❤️

Follow @millafics and turn notifications on for fics updates

[gagirlleaving]

From Packrat To Suitcase Life

I've always been a packrat. You never know when you might need a wire or a curtain.

Well, it's time to get rid of everything we own except that 10% that we really, really use.

I dread it. But that's part of becoming an expat.

The hard part is going to be air travel with three cats. Never mind that these are small cats. I just priced it. $250 bucks apiece. Our tickets to Mexico might run $500 one way. If we can get a good price. But wow! It might help me to think of it as 'moving expense', but we will have to leave Mexico every 6 months. Yikes!

I'm thinking of getting some remote work to help finance this.

My daughter is paid by the government to care for me, but she can't take a college course or get a side gig while she does this. It's the golden handcuffs. Hoo boy.

Getting rid of things is one thing. But we don't want to part with any of our babies. And, we don't want them riding in cargo. They'll be our carry on bags. I'm hoping we can use backpacks for our personal item. This is going to be difficult.

We're thinking of having an estate sale. I have a lot of tools, Ham equipment, a small coin collection, and a few collectables.

What are your ideas to prepare for a country exodus?

[eddy25960]

Dr. Pozzi at Home (portrait of Dr. Samuel Jean Pozzi), c.1881 by John Singer Sargent (1856-1925). American expatriate artist. Hammer Museum, Los Angeles, CA. oil on canvas.

[simply-ivanka]

In a piece titled “Dreaming of a move abroad? What it takes to immigrate to 5 countries,” the Post suggests five countries for disaffected leftists: Canada, the United Kingdom, Australia, New Zealand, and Ireland. The article then breaks down its recommendations with four factors it deems essential: weather, political outlook, healthcare, and ease of immigration.

But notice those five countries. Not only do they have a common language, English, but they also happen to be majority white. What about all that leftist concern about diversity? In contrast, the U.S. might be more ethnically diverse than all five of those countries combined.

The real reason, though, might be that all of these countries are more on the socialist side of the political spectrum. Furthermore, they don’t value freedom of speech like we do — and that’s saying something, given the censorship practiced in America by the leftists running most universities and Big Tech companies.

Ironically, one of the challenges that the Post notes is how difficult it is for Americans to expatriate to any of these countries. While simply traveling for a visit is no big deal, the prospect of relocating is not so simple. Indeed, these five countries take immigration much more seriously than Democrats and the Biden administration do. Just because an American wants to live in one of these countries doesn’t mean he’ll be allowed to.