A State of the Nation
“The only times the city can breathe freely is when a wind blows in from a far-off place . . . . this city is a world of its own, a country within a country,” writes Amanda Craig in the novel Hearts and Minds. London may as well not be part of England, for much of its Englishness has been molded and adapted to fit the narratives of those from far away. I hear more diverse accents and foreign languages than I do English ones. I love London for this globalism, and I think most people here do, too.
London has one of the most rapid growth rates in the developed world, 41% of its population is foreign-born, and a biracial American commoner is even marrying into the royal family. “Everyone was foreign, so in a sense, no one was,” Mohsin Hamid writes in Exit West. But 2018 is also an anxious time to be living in London. With rapid growth rates and refugee crises comes unmanageable strain and uncomfortably familiar pushback from the rest of the country.
Though I expected this, I left the US only to come to a country facing similar isolationism. Although Britain’s condensed geography can lend itself to imagining the issue as smaller–since London is just one liberal city compared to the dozens of blue coastal ones in the US–Britain’s jingoism certainly has global repercussions. Even domestically, Brexit definitely gives some Brits false hope of returning to the glory of the British empire.
One of my literature classes this semester focuses on state-of-the-nation novels of post-9/11 contemporary London. This week, we finished the book Gorsky by Vesna Goldsworthy. It’s a reimagination of Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby with new Russian wealth in present-day London. Although I didn’t particularly like the book (Vesna visited our class and said that Americans dislike it because she’s “stealing” our great American novel), I did enjoy its commentary on London’s relation to British nationalism.
She writes, “London was once an imperial city, then it was, for a while, just another European capital with good museums and bad hotels, inhabited by a nation that was once capable of great things. Finally the city unmoored itself from its nation and became a home to arrivals from all over the world, best suited to those who had millions and those who had nothing . . . . The new conquerors will come from India and China, to spend and to buy as the Russians did. The city will be their lover for a moment, then give herself to the next wave.”
As one of those waves from the west, I always get asked by Londoners where in America I’m from. “Ohio,” I respond, to a moment of immediate confusion.
“Oh, like…the middle somewhere?” some ask, laughing a little. I nod and smile, to which a few will joke, “so we can blame you for your election?”
After my explanations of why I love Ohio (I do), they’ll add (if they’re white), “I’ve never had much of an interest to go there, but maybe I’ll visit sometime.” Immigrant taxi drivers and cafe workers, on the other hand, will politely say that it may not be a safe time for people like them to visit. My country doesn’t feel safe to them again. How embarrassing.
Another London novel, Zadie Smith’s White Teeth, makes the point that “it is still hard to admit that there is no one more English than the Indian, no one more Indian than the English. There are still young white men who are angry about that . . . . But it makes an immigrant laugh to hear the fears of the nationalist, scared of infection, penetration, miscegenation, when this is small fry, peanuts, compared to what the immigrant fears–dissolution, disappearance.”
I cannot begin to imagine the lives of every Londoner, especially since I’m only living for four months in the most American neighborhood in the city (so maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about). But I also realized this week that London is the most ethnically and culturally diverse place I’ve ever lived. I am still just a temporary outsider, though, barely immersed enough to make these kinds of observations. I can leave and go back to my own life. Many Londoners cannot, as this is their home or their refuge.
I’ve read three novels about London in the last couple weeks. I love London’s personification as a living, breathing lover or a monster or a enveloping force that offers a different life for anyone, whether or not their reality actually changes with the scenery. Many come to London with some sort of dream, but London today is no Dickens novel.
“Without borders,” Hamid writes in Exit West, “nations appeared to be becoming somewhat illusory, and people were questioning what role they had to play.” I hope London, whether as a lover, friend, or enemy, extends an empathetic role amongst an era of border-building and fear within its own nation. I’m enjoying finding my role within it, too.
