I have a confession: I am an international student. You probably can't tell from my surname, and you won't pick up on an accent unless I happen to say "sorry," but I'm in this country on a visa, nonetheless. I don't think being Canadian has the same implications as it would if the cultural adjustments were more dramatic and the travel distance was longer, but it has a significant -- albeit largely invisible -- impact on my college experience.
So what does being an international student mean to me? I have a disproportionate amount of friends on the hockey team, thanks to a three-day stint at international orientation, and I have a more-than-healthy fear of run-ins with the law, convinced that I'll be deported and sent three hours north for the slightest indiscretion.
My sophomore summer housemates were from Los Angeles, Idaho and Seattle -- all significantly further from Hanover than my home base of Toronto -- but I was the one prohibited from taking classes (Don't worry, I'm not complaining.)
For the majority of college, coming from Canada has made me the butt of a series of running jokes. Despite my relative ignorance of American geography, history and politics, my pronunciation "problems," and the fact that I celebrate Thanksgiving in October, I am close enough to being American that I can be made fun of without being offended.
I personally don't identify with the international community on campus, but I am constantly reminded of the fact that I'm not quite an American. Trying to explain to 10 consecutive students encouraging me to vote that my abstaining from political participation wasn't by was just one example of this. Trying to apply for jobs without permanent work authorization is another.
Recently, however, as I've started to come to terms with the fact that soon I'll be on the alumni side of events like Winter Carnival, this acceptance makes me think about the fact that I can't keep bumming around on couches in Hanover (or the USA in general) indefinitely -- I'll expire.
That might be the scariest implication of all -- even more than just the trauma of entering the real world.
I don't mean to sound overly pessimistic, because I've had an amazing Dartmouth experience. I just feel, at times, like I'm suspended on the border of being American, separated by a clear but impenetrable glass barrier -- I can see the party, and I can hip thrust along with "Blame it on the Boogie," but I'm still hanging out on the "other side."
I don't want to forget about the long list of positives about being Canadian. I love that I have colourful money, free health care, Don Cherry and the 2010 Olympics. I never shy away from revealing my nationality, and, if I'm feeling bold enough, I'll even sing "O Canada" en franais.
I feel more comfortable and welcome in the U.S. than I ever expected to, and, some weeks, I even forget that I'm technically supposed to keep my immigration documents on me at all times. In truth, when June rolls around, and it's time to click my heels three times to head home, I might not know for sure exactly where home is.
