The History of Olivia
In May 2001, I was brought home to this exact house. Imagine my surprise to find it on Creative Commons as a free, public-domain photo. This was my “thatched-roof” cottage that my mom always complained about later in life. The heat never worked, there was never enough closet space, and my sister insisted on bringing a cat into the house, which my mom hated. However, despite the complaints I heard later in my adult life, this was my first ever home. This was also my mom’s first home in a new country that she had never lived in.
I was born and raised in Ampthill England. A small little town about an hour north of London. It was my whole world. My grandma lived around the corner, my aunt and uncle were up the street, and my half-sister stayed at my house every other week.
But how did I end up in America? Let’s back up. My mom is Maria, a native of Troy, New York. At 34 years old, she had lived in Troy, NY, Saratoga Springs, NY, and Las Vegas, NV. As an adult now, that sounds pretty cool! But I joke with her often that I don’t like that she lived that long before she “met” me.
In 2000, my mom and future godmother were skiing in British Columbia. The two of them were having a fun girls’ trip together. Eventually, they ran into a group of English guys on a trip together. My godmother was enamored by one of the guys and begged my mom to go up to them with her. One thing led to another, and something along the lines of a race down the mountain ensued.
That is how my parents met. My dad, Ian, was a part of that group of men with English accents, and the two of them hit it off. Back then, my mom worked for US Airways and could fly for free, so an international romance began.
When they got pregnant, my mom leased her apartment out in Saratoga, packed up her life, and moved to England.
I would go back and forth between my families in America and England, but for the most part, England was my home. I would visit my mom’s side and my cousins would laugh at me about my funny accent. But it was ok, because I thought they sounded funny too. I tell everyone that I basically grew up in airports. I had a passport by the time I was six weeks old and had probably made the transatlantic flight over 20 times.
This probably should have been a sign that my mom was homesick.
When I was on the brink of turning six, I knew that my parents were fighting a lot. The word “divorce” was never said, at least not in front of me, and I am sure I wouldn’t have even known what it meant. All I knew was we were going to “visit” my Grandma in America right after my birthday party.
I was so excited to spend my sixth birthday at the local Jungle Gym that I didn’t really care about this so-called trip to see my Grandmother. All I cared about was what face paint design I should get.
Now, let’s fast forward. I took the seven-hour flight that I had taken many times before, and now I was sitting in my Grandma’s garden. She bought me so many toys, and we were blowing bubbles together. I was distracted, so I didn’t realize my mom and her brothers were inside, talking about how she’d have to build a new life as a single mom.
So, I moved to Troy. My mother’s hometown. I thought it was New York City when I was little, and all the buildings must be smaller than the ones in the movies. I was confused though. Where was my dad? I missed my sister. These new people were my family, but felt like strangers to me. I missed my grandma’s tea and biscuits and my aunts laugh. I missed my old school and we didn’t even bring my bike.
This sounds like a sob story, but it’s not. People get divorced all the time. In the end, it was for the best. I started Kindergarten in June because New York State said I still had to go to school. So I was in American Kindergarten for 16 days and then I “graduated.” I run into my Kindergarten teacher now and then, and she always says I was so “posh” and answered so politely as she held me back from recess to test me on all the things you need to know to pass Kindergarten.
Now, at 25 years old, I have dual citizenship and families on opposite sides of the world. It’s not ideal, especially with the price of airfare these days, but it’s uniquely mine. I have had the privilege of seeing and living two distinct cultures and being able to call both of them mine. I love a Fourth of July barbecue just as much as I love a pint in the pub when the football is on
As much as my Mom complained about that “thatched-roof” cottage, it was where my story began. I learned to sit up, talk, and walk in that house pictured in the beginning of this story. England is still my home, but just a home that I have to travel to see. This makes it all the more special.
That was the history of me! I hope you enjoyed!
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