{"id":721,"date":"2019-04-30T21:32:10","date_gmt":"2019-05-01T01:32:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/?page_id=721"},"modified":"2020-07-17T12:14:52","modified_gmt":"2020-07-17T16:14:52","slug":"jonathan-herr","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/nonfiction\/jonathan-herr\/","title":{"rendered":"Jonathan Herr"},"content":{"rendered":"

Myself the Migrant<\/strong><\/p>\n

The Bahnhof<\/em> below Frankfurt International Airport was remarkably empty by the time I arrived. Despite the massive open air terminal above me, I was surprised to find only myself and two other people waiting for trains. I immediately began to panic: Did I miss my train?<\/em> For what was certainly not the first (nor the last) time I pulled my train ticket out of my backpack and attempted to make sense of the German print. While the words were essentially gibberish to me, the numbers clearly stated that I was still around an hour early. I was relieved if only for a moment before realizing I had no idea what track my train would arrive from \u2013 or even how to identify which train would bring me to my destination: Fulda.<\/p>\n

I had refused to set up an international account on my shoddy phone, feeling that it would be ultimately pointless \u2013 and now I was regretting it. I was thousands of miles away from the nearest friend or family member to ask for advice. Not that they would provide any real assistance; out of everyone I could have contacted, I had the most international experience. As far as I could tell there were no native English speakers in the vicinity to assist me. Even if I were to return to the dizzying maze of an airport above me, there was no guarantee I could find someone who could provide genuine assistance. I briefly entertained the idea of asking one of the random passersby on the platform for some guidance, but what basic conversational German I had picked up in the year before in classes immediately disappeared from my memory. For all intents and purposes, I was entirely alone in navigating an unknown situation and nation.<\/p>\n

Through sheer luck (or perhaps more competence in German than I had led myself to previously believe), I managed to find my track and hunker down in a small terminal beside my single suitcase. It struck me then that those possessions – clothing, a laptop, a few books, and toiletries – were essentially the only belongings I had to my name. I had visited Europe before for a Student Ambassador program carrying very much the same suitcase with similar belongings \u2013 even the luggage tag had remained unchanged (and still does to this day). However, the regimented, two-week trip paled in comparison to the enormity and freedom of the upcoming Study Abroad semester. I felt like a stranger with my suitcase \u2013 worse, I felt like an invader. As I wrote in my travel journal during my wait: \u201cI feel like some super spy hiding under a trench-coat. I\u2019m sitting in a corner right now trying to not be seen. I don\u2019t want to be here.\u201d<\/p>\n

When the train finally arrived, I bolted on and grabbed the first seat I could, only to be shouted at by a ticket checker. After several minutes of attempting to figure out the situation, an old woman took mercy on me and gently explained that the seats were reserved. I thanked her profusely and hurried to the back of the train car for the most inconspicuous spot I could find: directly next to full luggage racks. My heart was racing from the encounter, and worse still was I had a full train ride ahead of me. I had no idea when my stop was \u2013 or if I would even understand when it was called. All I could do was stay on my toes and take each moment as it came. My suitcase was the only thing I had at the moment to keep me from feeling naked. As the train pulled away from Frankfurt International and pulled me deeper into the unknown, I dryly wrote in my journal, \u201cat least the train was on time.\u201d<\/p>\n

Fear and uncertainty are not unusual emotions for one to go through when encountering a massive change, especially that of setting and circumstance. For me, the seemingly sudden arrival in an entirely new nation was overwhelming. The culture and lifestyle I had grown accustomed to for twenty years was stripped from me and I was forced into German society in the span of an hour. While these feelings would continue to mark the early period of my study abroad experience, my photos, videos and journal writings show the process of acculturation. Through the use of numerous sources on migrant studies, I have begun to notice the similarities between my study abroad experience and those of migrants. Furthermore, I feel that living in Germany as this short-term migrant of sorts was a dramatically more enriching experience than that of a standard visitor or tourist.<\/p>\n

Migrants, much like myself on the train to Fulda, typically start off in their new society feeling \u201cuncouth\u201d or \u201cdumb.\u201d This is mainly due to the differences in not only spoken language (in many cases), but also body<\/em> language, and culture.[1]<\/a>\u00a0 They typically attempt to find those that fit into their social sphere, and when they cannot, will attempt to fade from view. This is, to me, a crisis of identity. My status as a middle-class American male was challenged in Germany \u2013 and though I share racial and several cultural characteristics with Germans (unlike the majority of global migrants), the system shock I received was enough to send me searching for others like myself. Notes and photographs from my first day in Fulda show me at once assuming the roles of a home-sick student desperately attempting to reach the comforts of his home as well as that of the globe-trotting tourist. Intermingled with photographs of an already unkempt bedroom in my new flat were numerous shots of Fulda\u2019s tourist traps: Der Dom St. Salvator<\/em>, Altstadt<\/em>, numerous fountains and statues, the gardens, etc. Failing to meet with others in my situation, it seems that my immediate fall-back plan was to become exactly what I was in my first trip \u2013 an observer. Here my culture and status were protected from my new settings, much like a visitor to a zoo is protected from the animals by glass. I existed in Fulda, but was not a part of it for some time to come.<\/p>\n

This precarious balance between migrant and my self-imposed \u201ctourist\u201d status continued for nearly two weeks. While my photos continue to show myself and random classmates exploring Fulda and drinking beer at the local brauhaus <\/em>(Die Wiesenm\u00fchle<\/em>), my journal reflects significantly more private thoughts. In them I battle between justifying and berating myself for hiding away in my room during many of the early school sponsored events and social outings with Germans. \u201cIf I were back on LI I would be happier\u2026\u201d I lament before calling myself (rather comically) \u201ca stupid chump who can\u2019t handle being away from home.\u201d These feelings of home-sickness and confusion are not unique to me, and are in fact a huge part of early migrant experiences. In an attempt to maintain their cultural identity, many migrants \u201ccongregate in ethnic quarters to limit the amount of cultural change they experience.\u201d[2]<\/a> It appears that at least subconsciously my unnatural shyness and reluctance to participate in exchange events was an attempt to protect myself from culture shock.<\/p>\n

Eventually, my carefully constructed fa\u00e7ade started to fail during a mandatory class trip (our entire study abroad social work program was in a shared class at the time) to a local social-work project at the edge of town. Though the tour itself was interesting and the projects Germany supports to provide opportunities for those with physical disabilities are inspiring, the aspect of the trip that caught all of our attention \u2013 the professor included \u2013 was the onsite biergarten<\/em>. Here I would find my group of like-minded migrants, all experiencing culture shock in their own right and struggling to protect their native cultures. Oddly enough, while there were several Americans in my program, my newfound group was made up of a Finn, Czech, three Russians, and a Native American. I have notes about many of them in my journal before that fateful meeting \u2013 one in particular refers to two of the Russian girls as \u201cloners who never leave their rooms.\u201d While my notes describe them as \u201cworse than me,\u201d it didn\u2019t take long for all of us to see how similar our situation was.<\/p>\n

That moment seems to mark when the acculturation process truly began for me, and my life as a temp-migrant in Fulda had begun in earnest. While proud to have found a group of \u201cwayward friends\u201d who were having difficulty adjusting to German culture, little did we all think about how these social interactions would work to evolve our cultural understandings. Our growing comfort with each other led to culturally inspired events like an American BBQ, a Native American inspired dinner, a Russian movie marathon, and (myself and the Finn) celebrating Finnish Independence Day with a trip to a sauna and watching a speech by the Prime Minister. While at first these events seemed to be an entertaining way to pass our free evenings \u2013 of which there were many \u2013 it becomes apparent after the fact that we were practicing a \u201cself-determined transition\u201d or evolution of our \u201cdeeply ingrained cultural practices\u201d as migrants do in their new host nations.[3]<\/a> We not only put our cultures out there for each other to partake in and learn from, but were even willing to be influenced slightly. Moreover, in doing cultural trade within Germany, we had to abide by German culture and society \u2013 slowly allowing us to negotiate with our host nation. For example, when I was hosting a BBQ for my cohorts, I had to use German ingredients, purchase German beer, and put on German radio to entertain everyone. Afterwards, we used the specific town recycling centers, stopped off at a \u201cduck bowling\u201d alley, and topped off the night at a German disco. Though these interactions seem minor at first, they fostered an introduction to Fulda life. With this basic comfort level, more in depth culture acculturation would be able to take place not only in Fulda, but in my travels around other parts of Germany as well.<\/p>\n

It is generally agreed upon that work (and the opportunity that arises with it) is a primary factor for migrant\u2019s transience.[4]<\/a> It stands to reason then that said work is a primary cause for cultural diffusion and the process of acculturation. As we were a part of the study abroad program, we students were prohibited from seeking employment while in Fulda; however, this did not stop me from experiencing my own cultural work experience. A key element to the social work program was our placement within a social work institution to gain valuable experience. This included publically funded kindergartens on the Hochschule<\/em> campus for students and teachers, a drug rehabilitation center, and many more options that I attempted to sign up for. However, these options were not meant to be and I was unsuccessful in gaining \u201cemployment.\u201d This was primarily due to the intervention of Hr. Frank D\u00f6lker, the head of our program; he had a special program for me to take a part in. A close friend of his, Hartmut Bodenh\u00f6fer, was stricken with an unknown neurological disorder and – while mentally sound – was losing the ability to walk, move his arms, and even speak. As his condition deteriorated, his ability to live in the surprisingly handicap unfriendly environment of Germany was becoming increasingly limited. It was my assignment to observe: learn his story, see his struggles, and eventually see how through social work we might be able to alleviate his social and personal struggles.<\/p>\n

It was primarily due to this assignment that my travel journal was useful again, as I initially intended to \u201cdocument whatever I see whenever I see it. (Even though I felt) kind of creepy watching him like that.\u201d Sitting in his workplace and waiting for him to finish a meeting, I realized how far I had come from my initial fear and resistance towards Germany. The very prospect that I was now in a random German office building with the intent to spend a whole day with a German man I had never met and not<\/em> spending my day alone in my flat was astonishing. Still, it was disconcerting \u2013 the rigorous notes I took on the first day show my reluctance to interact. In retrospect it is clear to me that I used my \u201cwork\u201d to hide from Germany still. After several visits with Hartmut to his job, apartment, and a grocery store (all to document potential means to improve his quality of life), I was eventually brought to a doctor\u2019s office and a lawyer. Hartmut had recently learned of a new marijuana-vapor medicine that could potentially alleviate the tightness of his hand muscles, allowing him to bend his fingers more freely. His goal, naturally, was to discuss the possibility of joining a clinical trial with his doctor. My journal has only one note for that day during our sojourn to the hospital: \u201cspeech barriers with\u2026\u201d It was at that time that the receptionist at the hospital turned to me to translate for Hartmut, forcing me into what I feared most \u2013 attempting to partake directly in German society.<\/p>\n

Beforehand, my interactions with Germans were predominantly in the classroom, a space entirely separate from the nation and its rich culture. Even when normal classes started in the Hochschule, the social work program was kept entirely separate as the courses were carefully created to conform to American semesters and the English language. Outside of class most of my social interactions were with the same people I studied with all day. We whiled away many evenings at the Wiesenm\u00fchle, <\/em>Fulda\u2019s discos, or swimming at Esperanto Stadtbad. <\/em>Meanwhile, my interactions with locals typically involved buying groceries, dining out, shopping, social work trips to German institutions, and on rare occasions evenings at the local jazz club. School sponsored parties were often set up in an attempt to bridge the gap between study abroad students and the native German students, but the interactions were frequently limited to discussing America, and in English. These visits with Hartmut, however, put me in a situation where suddenly in order to properly do my job, I needed to explain Hartmut\u2019s troubled speech in a mixture of German and English. I was forced to take on the culture, customs, and (in these cases more so) language of my host nation as many migrants do in their work.[5]<\/a> Although this first attempt was less than perfect (in actuality an unmitigated disaster that ultimately ended with Hartmut and I borrowing someone\u2019s text-to-voice machine), it quickly became apparent at the lawyers office that people viewed me as his keeper in a sense.\u00a0 Almost every attempt Hartmut made to speak in non-work settings was met with a confused look and the lawyer turning to me, waiting for a translation. I tried my best to muddle through German legal jargon and again failed, but luckily I had spent enough time with him to gain the ability to understand and mimic at least the general idea of what he wanted to say.<\/p>\n

This process became an all-important element of my \u201cwork.\u201d More than half of our remaining visits had us visiting public places that required a fair amount of speech and mobility. Much to my chagrin (and Hartmut\u2019s amusement and frustration) I had to take an increasing amount of direct intervention in speech and guiding his movement. This was in part due to his deteriorating condition and also the growing level of comfort I had in my interactions with Germans. Much like migrants, I found myself slowly becoming more familiar with my host nation (in this case its language) through my labor. Through my labor, I was given the opportunity to separate myself from my native culture and lower the barriers I had created for myself. In addition, I was becoming a part of German culture and society, no longer merely observing.[6]<\/a><\/p>\n

My journal writings also reflect this acculturation, as for some reason starting in the first week of November, they were written with German interspersed throughout. Save for a few short sentences (and some random interjections and doodles), my entire two-page long November 8th<\/sup> entry is in German: \u201cSo I like how the only times I write now are during waits for Hartmut!\u201d Like migrants, I found myself becoming more integrated in the culture of my host-nation due to my job. This increased comfort with the host culture had left me confident in my abilities, and eager to express myself publically and privately. Unfortunately, on November 8th<\/sup> Hartmut never showed up to our scheduled meet at the Wiesenm\u00fchle<\/em>. Instead I was left to write a long entry about how I got a beer (\u201cA GOOD [sic.] one. None of that American crap\u201d) and a pizza, before reflecting on my experience in Fulda thus far as \u201cbeautiful. I wish I could record my brain and relive certain moments the exact same way. The shadows on my paper, the smell of fall, the atmosphere\u2026 perfect.\u201d The changes in my entries from when I had first arrived were distinct. Gone was the fear and confusion, and instead I was filled with a serenity and comfort in my host-nation.<\/p>\n

Perhaps the most telling example of my stark change through the months of acculturation would be the trip I hosted to the US Army base in Wiesbaden. One of the first things I did upon arriving in Fulda was search for a way to enjoy the comforts of American society while abroad. If I could not go home, I would at least find an alternative. This was specifically done as a means of preserving my identity as an American and subconsciously to protect myself from the German society I was surrounded by. It took months of planning with spokespeople from the base to set up the date, time, and structure of this base visit, but finally a date was set: November 27th<\/sup>. Unfortunately, my travel journal is missing all dates after the 26th<\/sup> \u2013 mainly because I was using it as a means of documenting my work with Hartmut (these notes still continued well into December). However, I have massive amounts of photographs, emails, and a receipt from the base to trace the visit rather accurately. In addition, I have video documenting many of the conversations towards the end of our trip.<\/p>\n

While the base trip was indeed a means to isolate myself further from Germany, at least at first, this changed relatively quickly. Originally I intended to spend the day alone on the base and let American culture and food wash away my concerns about being abroad. However, about a month before the scheduled visit, I started sending emails to base relations personnel requesting the visit to allow members of my \u201cloners group\u201d to visit. In the end, my Finnish friend and a recently befriended German (already a sign of my growth) joined me on a tour of the facility. Rather than beguiling myself with American culture and the sight of post-office trucks, suburban houses, and a 7-11, the trip took on an ironic tone. My friends and I were there to witness a cultural enclave that seemed so out of place in the beautiful German city of Wiesbaden \u2013 itself a cultural capital. While the base employee I had contacted gave us a detailed tour and history of American intervention in Germany and how the bases were constructed to preserve American lifestyles, it became more apparent that I was homesick for no particular reason. The brief stop at the an American grocery story left me laughing at the aisle of hot pockets more than wishing I could partake in the foodstuffs I knew so well in the States.<\/p>\n

I would highly recommend this tour for anyone visiting from America, just to see the bizarreness of a mini-America tucked away in a German city. However, from here on out, I strongly advise that no one follow in my footsteps. The pinnacle of my excursion occurred after our tour of the apartment buildings and schools for non-military personnel in a separate base. The time was nearing 6pm and we were invited by our guide to partake of a real<\/em> American military dinner \u2013 breaded steak, barracks style. Needless to say, we balked at the offer. Instead, a clever plan of mine was about to come into effect. Upon arriving in Germany, one of the first things I researched was the presence of American fast-food \u2013 the effects of culture shock left me clamoring for the sight of anything familiar. While Fulda and all surrounding towns and cities seemed to house McDonalds (albeit in a massively improved manner than their American counterparts), there was only a single Taco Bell in the entirety of Germany, nay, in Europe. It just so happened to be located on the Wiesbaden Army base. As I evolved during my stay, this prospect of my visit culminating to the base culminating in a dinner at Taco Bell evolved too. At first, it was to be a call-back to my life on Long Island, where Taco Bell played a major part in get-togethers with various friends. However, on the day of the trip the idea of visiting Taco Bell with my European friends was a chance to show them \u201cAmerica\u2019s single greatest export \u2013 even more so than Freedom.\u201d<\/p>\n

As we all piled back into the guide\u2019s car to return to the main base for our steak, I reverted to a previous role of home-sick tourist. I lamented my failed opportunity to show my European friend\u2019s American fast-food, just because the Taco-Bell, Baskin Robbins, Cinnabon, etc. were tucked away in a military personnel only marketplace \u2013 \u201cMainStreet USA Food Court.\u201d While I am not proud of this moment, the active shift I needed to make for this startled me. I had come to realize how my lifestyle had changed to include aspects of my host-nation; I was eating their food, speaking their language, dancing to their music, watching their sports. The fearful, uncertain American was a role I felt uncomfortable with \u2013 it didn\u2019t fit me and my identity any more. Regardless of how I felt at the time, our guide sighed heavily and asked for my passport, which I handed to her. She tucked it in the glove compartment of the car and changed directions. \u201cYou\u2019re my son, and left your military ID at home.\u201d She stated, as if it were the honest truth. \u201cThese two are your friends from town and will only need to sign in as my guests.\u201d<\/p>\n

Slipping through the guards was very easy with our story, and ultimately we were free to walk around the food court of our own volition. Our guide excused herself to call our original dinner plans and cancel (thankfully). The biggest roadblock was the cashier at the Taco Bell, a local German who refused to ring us up without valid military ID. Here, our story did not hold, and we were beginning to panic. None of us wanted to know what the charges were for impersonating military personnel or sneaking onto a secure military structure. Eventually my German friend, Sina, stepped in to explain the situation. Timo, the Finn, and I hurried way from the counter, pacing nervously and hoping none of the many guards and personnel around the marketplace would pick up on the story. From behind us the cashier laughed heartily and called us back over to take our order. In the end, it was the sweetest Taco Bell I had ever enjoyed, and the receipt is still among my most prized possessions. If you tell the military this story, please give me time to destroy the evidence.<\/p>\n

As I left the base with my stomach full and friends sufficiently \u201cAmerica\u201d-ed out, it began to dawn on me that I was like one of those soldiers in a sense. At the time I reflected briefly that upon arriving in Fulda several months earlier I too was locked in a cultural enclave. The presence of American institutions and food services mimicked my feelings on the superiority of American culture over my host-nation\u2019s. Like the soldiers, I was a visitor in a foreign land, living in<\/em> Germany but not as a part of it. Retrospectively, having delved into migrant studies and German history, I have gained a deeper appreciation for the status of these soldiers and their roles as migrants as well. At the height of the Cold War, these soldiers and their bases were, in essence, ambassadors of American culture.[7]<\/a> The goal of the American government was to have these soldiers interact with Germans in their towns, or invite Germans to participate in events on the bases \u2013 leaving them open to Americanization. However, as they interacted with Germans, they also began to pick up elements of German culture and language \u2013 and in some cases pick up locals for spouses.\u00a0 These soldiers mimic ideas of acculturation processes present in migrants \u2013 albeit in slightly differing qualities. While migrant theory discusses acculturation as migrants adopting host-nation cultural and social attributes while maintaining some of their own (blending the two cultures generationally until the generations become the host culture), the soldiers were more so depositing culture and receiving less in return.[8]<\/a> As the Cold War and its culture wars subsided, soldiers began to decrease in their roles as ambassadors to the point we see today: staying in their mini-Americas. In a sense, American soldiers through 20th<\/sup> Century Germany show two distinct archetypes of migrant lifestyles: the one that acculturates and the one that remains locked in their native culture.<\/p>\n

The \u201cambassador soldier\u201d program of the United States was successful in altering cultural identity of Germans \u2013 a topic best left to another paper and further research. However, in a smaller sense, I was privy to stories on how American intervention and occupation of Germany played an impact on the life of my professor Hr. D\u00f6lker. As a youth he grew up alongside an Army base. During the Vietnam War he was a youth, and he and his friends protested the occupation of Germany by the American belligerents. At the time, West Germany served as a post for soldiers going to Vietnam. As the counter-culture movement picked up, D\u00f6lker became more involved in the punk movement and would steal Mercedes-Benz hood ornaments off of cars and string them along belts to wear as medals. This was a protest to the rising capitalist sentiments in the West. Though they varied in intensity and style, from his stories of Americanization in West Germany I was able to gain a deeper picture of the impacts of American occupation on the small baroque town I was calling my temporary home. In addition, I received a differing viewpoint on the American empire and its wide-reaching global influence. With this information, I was able to learn a lot about my cultures and their interactions in the past.<\/p>\n

The final weeks of my time in Fulda left me fully cognizant of my precarious cultural position. I spent a large amount of time looking at my previous journal entries and the various videos and photos I had taken of my early months. Most of these reflections of my earlier homesick\/ tourist self left me incredibly uncomfortable \u2013 as if they were made by a stranger. I was also becoming more and more aware that my increasing comfort level (and decreasing downtime) led me to almost entirely neglect my journal. I had no need to fall back upon self-reflection of my day and write to preserve my American status, as I had become integrated in my Fulda lifestyle. My travels and interactions were documented far more by photographs of and with friends. Despite traveling to Poland for four days and Nuremburg for two, my journal reveals no information. The only evidence I have of my travels to Auschwitz-Birkenau, the Krakow castle, the Nuremburg Christkindlmarkt<\/em>, etc. are in hastily taken photographs, receipts, and coasters from the various bars. It was as if I was more interested in living the scenes out with my group than I was in documenting it as a tourist. Moreover, it was as though these scenes, which under other circumstances would be seen as extraordinary, were now an everyday part of life as a German citizen. MY acculturation process had been completed.<\/p>\n

In some cases, I have no documentation of my experiences \u2013 only memories. The last trip taken by the social-work program was to the East German city of Weimar. We had taken a number of trips beforehand that were based on social work experiences in Germany, but on this occasion we were to visit the Buchenwald concentration camp. It was a sobering experience \u2013 possibly more so than Auschwitz \u2013 and the bizarre counterpoint of the atrocities committed onsite and the beautiful mountain scenery with a light dusting of snow stays with me to this day. To offset this trip, our professors figured a short excursion to Weimar would be an uplifting experience. As the students in the program had become more accustomed to German culture and the language, we were permitted to wander freely about the city for three to four hours before returning to our chartered bus and Fulda \u2013 a first for our excursions. I had decided to join a few American students in wandering through the streets in search of a bakery. After some time, I realized that I was no longer walking alongside any of my cohorts. To this day I have no clue how I managed to separate myself, but it did not matter at the time as I was living what was my worst fear: being lost in an entirely foreign city. I had no phone, no map, no friend to call on, and no haven to seek assistance. Despite this horrifying reality, I was at peace with my circumstances. I took the opportunity to wander the town\u2019s streets, and even stumbled upon the Christkindlmarkt<\/em> in the center. Rather than panicking (as I undoubtedly would have months before) I was comfortable enough in my adopted culture to enjoy my private travels and eventually ask for directions back to the mall where my classmates were waiting by the bus. A potentially nightmarish situation was instead a pleasant evening blending into a beautiful German city. Internally I was aware that I should have panicked, but my exterior remained collected as I blended into Weimar \u2013 just another German wandering the marketplace.<\/p>\n

The most difficult aspect of my temp-migrant status was ironically the return home. Not necessarily the ten-hour delay to my flight back to America (and subsequent failed engine mid-flight), but more so the return to my native society, culture, and status. It was a jarring experience for me to wander JFK airport and hear the thick Long Island accents. At the passport station I had to ask the gentleman several times to repeat himself \u2013 wishing I had instead chosen the line of German speakers and their passport personnel. As I walked to the main gate to meet my family I reflected fondly on my experiences in Germany and wondered when or if I would return. I already missed my friends, my professors and Hartmut. The Wiesenmuhle<\/em> and the Christkindlmarkt<\/em> were also high on my list of lamentations. The German lifestyle I had so actively worked against in my early experience had become very important to me. It had become such a part of my daily life that as I met my family I greeted them instinctively in German. Even as I corrected myself and started speaking English as my primary tongue, I was stuck speaking in German grammar: \u201cLet\u2019s to the car go.\u201d My Mother didn\u2019t stop laughing at me until we got home. My return to America was ultimately far easier than my initial trip to Germany, but my extended stay led to successful acculturation. Although my experience was in a limited time-frame, it was not unlike that of migrants entering new societies. From the early isolation to the roundabout acceptance to the active participation in the host nation\u2019s culture, I can now see the similarities. Moreover, it is of my opinion that this manner of experiencing Fulda and Germany as a whole was all the more enriching than it would have been had I gone as a tourist or a short-term visitor. It was and will always remain a life-changing experience, one that I actively hope others will pursue.<\/p>\n

[1]<\/a> Harzig, Christiane, Dirk Hoerder, and Donna Gabaccia. What is Migration History?<\/em> (Boston, MA: Polity Press, 2009), 105.<\/p>\n

[2]<\/a> Hoerder, Dirk. Cultures in Contact: World Migrations in the Second Millennium<\/em>, (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2002), 579.<\/p>\n

[3]<\/a> Ibid., 580<\/p>\n

[4]<\/a> Dirk Hoerder, \u201cOverlapping Spaces: Transregional and Transcultural\u201d Printed as Chapter 5 in Workers Across the Americas: The Transnational Turn in Labor History<\/em> edited by Leon Fink, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011). (Page number unavailable in copy)<\/p>\n

[5]<\/a> Hoerder, Cultures in Contact<\/em>, 579.<\/p>\n

[6]<\/a> \u201cTurks are a Part of German Culture,\u201d The Local<\/em> Oct. 28, 2011.<\/p>\n

[7]<\/a> Maria H\u00f6hn and Seungsook Moon, ed., Over There: Living with the U.S. Military Empire from World War Two to the Present<\/em> (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), 153-154.<\/p>\n

[8]<\/a> Hoerder, Cultures in Contact<\/em>, 578.<\/p>\n

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Collin Anderson Memorial Award for Creative Nonfiction Winner<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

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\"\"<\/p>\n

Jonathan Herr<\/strong> is a Graduate student of History in SUNY Cortland and was also the author of other College Writing Award pieces in short fiction and Graduate research in 2014 and 2019 respectively. He has traveled throughout Europe as both a student ambassador and college student. He is currently working on creating modules based on his experiences abroad to educate study abroad students on ideas and trends of global migration and the importance of considering US history in a global context. \u201cMyself the Migrant,\u201d is a self-reflection piece based on these modules. Jonathan also enjoys writing short stories that tend to go nowhere, listening to music incessantly, and Taco Bell probably a bit too much. I\u2019m available – I mean\u00a0he\u2019s available to be contacted about the modules or other writings at jonathan.herr@cortland.edu.<\/p>\n

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Myself the Migrant The Bahnhof below Frankfurt International Airport was remarkably empty by the time I arrived. Despite the massive open air terminal above me, I was surprised to find only myself and two other people waiting for trains. I immediately began to panic: Did I miss my train? For what was certainly not the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":130,"featured_media":0,"parent":702,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","footnotes":""},"class_list":{"0":"post-721","1":"page","2":"type-page","3":"status-publish","5":"entry"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/721","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/130"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=721"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/721\/revisions"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/pages\/702"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/sites.cortland.edu\/crystallize\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=721"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}