The X-Kraut Files:
An American Ex-German

Introduction

All photos for this interview courtesy Chris Loewl.

Although we'd always spoken German at home, my modest grasp of it was of little use in the hill country of the Swabian Alb, where folks spoke a dialect very different from what I'd ever heard (it was considered the Language of Rubes in the next city, 20 kilometers away). My parents weren't from that area to begin with, and couldn't help me either.

How did you react to all this?

I realized after a long period of outright rage (I even hated the rectangular pieces of toilet paper), sadness, and self-pity that there was no going back. I was cut off from virtually everything American save AFN Radio and my Tolkien trilogy (which is of English origin). It was sink or swim. So I went to school, learned German, learned Swabian, fought with writing left-handed with a fountain pen, played some lousy soccer, blended in culturally as best I could -- in part because I'd become tired of rehashing my life story to curious kids.

Ha. Chris the American was put to sleep, and Chris the Kraut was developed at a time when I should have been experiencing teenagerdom, but I pulled it off -- with mixed results. It was too much at once. I wasted a lot of energy and emotion (yeah, it wears down too) on just not throwing in the towel.

It sounds like a lot of pain, but you seem to have finally come to terms with your situation.

Over the course of 15 years I mellowed out a bit, "matured" and took on many German traits against my liking (like the German wisdom that "humor" rhymes with "tumor") or better judgment, but added some things like a decent work ethic and attention to detail that are still with me today. I also love to travel, but need a home base. After nine years I finally had enough money to visit Jersey again -- in 1986. It was off-the-charts weird. The old Chris didn't have much of a chance to resurface since I was conscripted to 15 months military duty in the Luftwaffe right afterward.

Do you consider yourself an expat -- either German or American?

Well, over the last few years I've seen and monitored various posts and sites on the Internet pertaining to expatriates and so-called "third culture kids." Though definitions vary, it seems an "expat" is generally one who works abroad and takes his immediate family with him/her. Many have a network of friends and helpers provided by the outfit they work for (e.g. military personnel) to ease the strain of relocation (or avoid it completely). I wasn't in that category.

Less often have I encountered true "global nomads" in real life and on the Net (won't someone sell these guys laptops?!), namely folks who change jobs and fatherlands whenever it's convenient or necessary. The children of this particular group are exposed to several cultures, and often wind up developing their own "third" version, a conglomerate of everything they were exposed to. They conclude that, say, while toilet paper beats a right-handed hand-cleaning, a bidet is interesting but not vital. They try it all. Expat children I've known achieve a lesser degree of "third culture," because they aren't fully immersed in a foreign culture. As a matter of fact, "Army brats" in a large military community such as in Bamberg, Germany, have Burger King, Pizza Hut, Archie comics, American films, high school, Marshmallow Fluff, Smud and Floam at their disposal. I wouldn't count them as expats at all.

Why not?

The extent of their widened horizon is often:

Guys: "Germany has great beer. I learned to say 'Zwei Bier' during my four-year stay. The 'Frolleins' were great. But their hairy armpits..."

Gals: "The disco-dancing was great. I can't believe German women don't shave their armpits. Eeeeeeyuuuuucko!"

Okay, let's get back to the beginning. How did this all start?

For me, it all started in the mid-1950s when my German dad enlisted in the US Army, did basic training in Fort Dix and was stationed in Munich, some 200 km (124 mi) from his hometown. It was there, while living the life of Riley, he met my mom, another "rucksack German" (displaced post-WWII Eastern German from Silesia, East Prussia, etc.). His time was up in '63 and the Army offered to drop off his personal belongings wherever he wished. He loved the Wild West and my mother liked the idea of a freebie, so they moved to the US -- specifically to Newark, N.J. Sure, not quite Wyatt Earp country, but his sister lived there with her Jewish husband. They vouched for him, or something like that, so Newark it was.

Anyway, I was born shortly thereafter in an elevator (going up or down?) at Beth Israel Hospital, and photogenically sandwiched between two black babies in the ward -- or so I was told.

My mother hated her in-laws and decided to move into the Bronx -- officially so my father wouldn't have to commute so far to work as a grossly mistreated laborer at Kimberly-Clark. (After that he worked at some electronics firm).

What are your memories from that time?

I vaguely remember visiting Germany in '68 with my mother and older sis. (Dad had to work.) I also recall the New York City fire hydrants opened in the summer, cars being burned in front of our apartment, the shoe store next door going up in flames, bullet holes in our hall door. The final straw was some worthless thug stealing our worldly possessions (including our homemade black-and-white TV) while we were at the Zoo.

We moved to rural Newton in "upstate" New Jersey and lived a fairly peaceful "American life" there, though we did speak German at home. Mom had several Old World ticks and mannerisms that were mildly irritating to me: I wasn't allowed to wear sneakers on gym-less days, the exterior doors stayed locked at all times, we took baths, not showers, no buying of fast-food. (Madison Avenue could never infect her with wasteful American consumerism.)

Germany was forever revered in our household. Luckily (for Mother) we had a German butcher in Newton (though his quality wasn't "top-notch", he worked with what he could get). And we went to the Olympics in Munich in 1972 -- that is, we just walked around the grounds, did not spectate; Dad stayed home and worked. I was eight then, loved marzipan, Kett-Cars, basically everything I didn't get in the US.

So Germany wasn't all bad for you then?

Not really. In fact, when Mom went into another of her "America sucks" rants, I wasn't totally against moving to Germany. This went on for years, but then came 1977. I was 13. Our house was paid for, Dad had been laid off once or twice, but things were okay. From my point of view, anyway. I had some good friends and kissed my first "honeycakes" in the dugout at the park. This was wa-a-a-y better than marzipan. But Mom had finally had it with our lifeless 100% chemically processed Wonder Bread, sold the house, bought a VW camper, and we embarked on a three-month tour of the US before leaving for Germany.

What was your US tour like?

The trip was a disaster, because my Dad's brother and wife came along for half the trip. Six people (two of whom were strangers to me), baggage, plus a cat in a small VW camper. The Big Farewell had been going on for months by then and we couldn't even pretend to pull together as a family unit under these circumstances.

So what would you have told your parents if you had known then what you know now?

First of all, if you're going to do the expat thing, you should put it to a vote within the family (and then get organized, do it fast). Sure your dumb kid doesn't know much about bills and "opportunities," but he still might ask what was wrong with a perfectly good house on a quiet street in Newton. Explain it. Explain why it "has to be." Explain why your friends in Germany -- ones you haven't seen in 15 years -- are more important than your child's. Tell me exactly how many Kett-Cars you will buy me with all the big money you'll earn. Whatever the reason, "to widen our horizons" won't quite cut it with a teen. I was doing just that in that dugout, thank you. Timing is crucial.

I got some fairly lame reasons for being sent into exile. One reason was that my Mom's mother was getting old. She wanted to help her in her twilight years. They'd never gotten along well, so maybe now was the time to mend fences. Sure. My Grandma was doing just fine, living among mountains of clutter she didn't want us to even look at, lest we break anything. Since I barely knew my Oma, this rationale was obscure enough for me not to be able to argue against it at the time.

Dad is a nice guy who loved to hunt, fish, spend time in the abundant "Joisey" weeds, but he was a wimp. He hadn't been in Germany since 1963; we'd gone there twice in that time. If he wanted to see his old buddies and family overseas, a vacation would've been appropriate. No need to move just for that. But that was too easy. Logic, as we shall see, had little to do with daily operations and big decisions in our house.

So what happened?

Well there we were in late September 1977, living in a campground. We'd seen some nice places out West, our things were packed -- heck, we could still change our minds and head for Idaho. I'd rooted loudly for America ever since we'd embarked on our odyssey. And then I learned a lesson: Some people do just the opposite of what you want out of spite, simply to show who's in control. There doesn't have to be a reason. It's just the proverbial kid who takes his ball and goes home 'cuz he can't have it his way. He'd still like to play, but he believes that his owning the ball makes him master of how it has to roll. He'll play by himself and retain control, which still beats your standing there picking your nose -- if you rely on folks bringing you their toys and you can't think of anything else to do.

It's odd at first when your parents resort to this, but it can happen. They can even get used to this patent maneuver quite quickly. Only: parents either shouldn't play selfishly with the ball, or not have kids. Period. No shame there.

Over time, our family had developed into a matriarchy and my male rebellion was badly timed (and conveniently blamed on smart-alecky teen angst) and got me whatever it was I didn't want. My Dad was ambivalent about Germany, my sis sided with my mother, so off to Germany we went.