Being German in America

The first time I came to this country, I was an exchange student at 18. That year I felt at home on this planet for the first time. The spaciousness, incurable optimism, and hospitality of America touched me. It took me a few more visits, until I came for good 15 years later. I am European at heart, and some things here baffle me.


I arrive at the brink
of womanhood.
Skinny body,
bra-less breasts,
unshaven legs and armpits.

In the school cafeteria kids stand up
and touch their hearts
at breakfast.
I have to keep the door open
when a boy
is in my room.
People smile with their mouths
when their eyes tell a lie.
They ask how I am
when they don’t have time
to listen.

Loud, happy, blond faces.
Homemade pumpkin pie.
Cocaine and watching “Apocalypse Now.”
Circumcised penis
in the back of a ‘62 Ford.

In school one morning
a stupid guy
stretches his stiff arm
to the sky,
clicking his heels,
hailing a salute.
Shame floats me
through the long, yellow hallway.
The German in me
shrivels
to speechlessness.

Seven slices of buttered toast for breakfast,
piled, and tablespoons of peanut butter
from a secret bucket in the pantry.
So much food. So much
everything.
So much space. So much
freedom.

I come from a country without cake mixes.
A country of trauma, sadness,
and dark memories.
A country of stiff bodies
scrambling for too little space.
A country of poets,
and survivors.

I left my country many years later
to live in America
with my down comforter,
and books,
and my still German daughter,
who for weeks kept saying to everyone
for lack of other language

“How are you?”