I never had a little brother … but I was one. So I know how this works.

There is an unwritten bylaw in the “How Family Works Field Guide” that states very explicitly that elder siblings reserve full rights to be absolutely annoyed by little brothers. Because little brothers are built with an intrinsic and sophisticated capacity for annoyance.

It’s uncanny.

We’re born with it.

You don’t have to teach us the classics, like “nana nana boo boo” and “I’M NOT TOUCHING YOOOUUU.” It’s just engrained into us and we are compelled to exploit every opportunity to grate every nerve.

There is (for the preservation of the species) of course, a parental safety zone that protects the bratty brother from fiery elder sibling wrath but we all know full well that getting caught on the wrong side of that line doesn’t end well for said brat. That’s where the fire is unleashed.

It is their elder sibling right.

And their elder sibling duty.

EVERYTHING CHANGES though, when the bully steps in.

It’s an understanding as old as families and it is sacred code:

“I get to pick on my little brother … but you need to back off.”

That’s how expats feel about their host countries.

When you live abroad it feels like family. Sometimes you hate it but you always love it more. It is constantly present and always in your business. It pushes your boundaries, invades your personal space, and annoys the pot out of you.

So you whine. You gripe. You complain because there is a sense that you are paying your dues and you are earning that right.

We’re family. That’s how family’s do.

But something gets triggered in us when the kid down the street starts badmouthing our host.

When they reduce it to its most bratty features.

When they drag it through the mud and make threats.

When they make up lies and fabricate stories.

When they joke.

When they blame.

When they shame.

When they mock.

When they mimic.

When they meme.

And the absolute worst is when they laugh out loud and slap you on the back like you should get it. As if you’re going to jump on the bandwagon and turn on your own little brother.

“Dude. You LIVED there. You know what it’s like. Validate me.”

No.

Just no.

Because the reality is that I DID live there. I DO know what it’s like. And you’re not even close.

Your barely informed, ethnocentric stereotypes and conspiracy theories that weren’t even smart when you found them on Facebook don’t even begin to paint the picture of the richness, or the depth, or the magnificence, OR the issues connected to my host culture. Your presumptions and assumptions and spineless attempts to stir the pot and snag some “likes” along the way, point straight to your insecurities, and showcase your ignorance. There is SO much more to these people. They are more complex and nuanced than you will EVER glean from your one-sided podcast or the evening news.

They are more beautiful AND more broken than you can imagine.

I know.

Because I lived there.

And I can’t imagine it either.

But here’s the kicker. Living there showed me MY OWN CULTURE too. From the outside. With a different set of lenses and from a different perspective.

And guess what.

It’s also richer, and deeper, and more beautiful, and more broken than I ever imagined AND you don’t own the rights to stereotyping. They’re doing the same thing to you and when that happened over there — it triggered me.

Because we’re family.

Living where I lived broke open the bigger picture and left me with a willingness to admit that there is ALWAYS more to the story.

And sometimes.

Just sometimes.

Over there.

Someone would ask a question instead of raising a banner. They would confess their ignorance instead of defending it. They would lead with “I always thought” but open up to “I never knew” and it was SO GOOD.

I loved those conversations.

I got to be the expert but I learned so much more than I ever taught. It was intelligent, and enlightening, and significant, and challenging, and frustrating, and sometimes downright annoying — and I walked away every time just a little more in touch with the human side of my stereotypes.

And so did they.

So, I’m just putting it out there and I’m gonna’ go ahead and speak for EVERY EXPAT EVER.

If you would like to have a conversation about our host country, we would LOVE THAT. Ask some questions about the people, the places, and even the politics. Let’s dig deep, not because I’m the expert (I am not) but because I’ve seen them, up close, with your eyes, and I’ve seen you up close with theirs.

But if you’re a bully — then back off.

Because that’s my little brother.

Can you resonate expats? Ever feel like this or is it just me?

What triggers you?

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