Out of Sight, Out of Mind

An unexpected side effect of immigrating

Helloooo, out there! Photo by Dmitry Schemelev on Unsplash

Cari amici,

I was talking to a fellow U.S.-to-Italy immigrant friend the other day about a strange thing that’s happened to both of us, what I’ve come to think of as a side effect of immigrating. We’ve been sidelined, in some cases, by friends or family, in what amounts to a painful manifestation of the old saying “out of sight, out of mind.” Whatever happened to “absence makes the heart grow fonder”?

Thing is, our apparent semi- or nonexistence in the minds of some of the people we left behind doesn’t make sense on a time/space level. Here in Italy I’m not that much farther away from the East Coast, where I have friends and family, than I was in California, and either way, the distance is great enough that popping over for dinner isn’t an option. It’s like there’s a tolerable limit or something—a time difference of three hours, East Coast to California, is okay, but six hours across the Atlantic won’t cut it, even though I’d be the one staying up late to have a chat.

So there must be something else going on. Why has communication become so difficult, undesirable, or whatever other reason the left-behinders feel justifies their silence? I’m still here. Sure, I’ve changed since moving to Italy, but I’m still essentially the same person. Of course the shreds, remnants, and through-lines of a shared history—misunderstandings, miscommunications, hurt feelings, differences of opinion—continue, but every family has those, no matter how loving, and this isn’t that. Instead, it feels at times like I don’t exist.

Maybe it’s a Covid thing, because this perception of emotional distance has gotten worse since then. Take my friend, who post-Covid told a family member about a significant and traumatizing life event. (I’m deliberately being vague here to protect my friend’s privacy.) Since then, my friend has heard nothing from that formerly very close relative—not once, not a call or even an email to inquire about the status of things or how my friend has been holding up. What happened?

Of course the obvious fear is that the left-behinders either never think about us at all, or they do, but they just don’t care enough to make the quite small effort to check in. That’s a depressing thought, and possibly true. But would I be writing about this sad state of affairs if I hadn’t immigrated? I don’t think so.

Which leads me to wonder if what’s at play is an underlying sense of rejection on the part of the people left behind in America, even though our decisions to immigrate (and I can speak for my friend here as well as myself) had nothing to do with wanting to leave friends and family. Yes, of course, we obviously had reasons to come to Italy, but that doesn’t mean we wholesale rejected America and everyone in it, especially our loved ones. Case in point, which I still think about a lot: when I told a longtime family friend (of my parents’ generation, but still very close and dear to me) I was moving to Italy, their response wasn’t “How exciting!” or “Great, you can really dig into your Italian roots!” or “I’ll come visit!” Their response was this: “You’ll be back.”

I’ll be honest—it rankled. It felt patronizing, as if I was 1) doing something stupid or not well thought out, or 2) didn’t know what I was getting into, or 3) didn’t know my own mind. Number 2 was true—I don’t think any immigrant can truly comprehend how different life will be—but 1 and 3 were, and still are, false. I think it’s the presumptuousness of number 3 that offended me. But now, years later, I wonder if the impetus for my friend’s remark was defensiveness—if, perhaps, my choice to immigrate was perceived less as a move to another country and more as a move away from my native country. My friend’s country. And somehow that was threatening.

And maybe that’s why, at least in part, for some of our loved ones, we are out of sight and out of mind. We have offended them (though they might deny it) by leaving their country, even though none of them are “rah-rah America is great” types.

In summary: it sucks. That said, I feel compelled to add, in mama bear mode, that my sons have been nothing but supportive, communicative, and eager to visit, for which I’m eternally grateful.

Here’s a parting shot from my friend and me, who feel crummy when our phones don’t ring and our emails go unanswered: staying in touch isn’t the sole duty and obligation of the person who immigrated. It’s a two-way street, wide open, with no stoplights, when everyone agrees to use a messaging app that’s a heck of a lot more spontaneous and less cumbersome than email (and completely free, btw). And yet some of the left-behinders won’t do that. Claims of being a Luddite don’t really fly when that person uses a smartphone and a computer on a daily basis. And if they do fly, all it takes is for a non-Luddite to download the app in question for the Luddite, and voilà! Communication ensues.

That’s all for today, just a little journey into what’s left of my mind after weeks of a relentless heatwave (which I shouldn’t complain about given the suffering caused by recent fires, floods, and hurricanes). I’d love to hear your thoughts (hit those comments!), and also your “out of sight, out of mind” experiences, if any (hopefully not!).

Alla prossima,

Cheryl

© Cheryl A. Ossola 2023

P.S. My book! Which you can buy here or on the usual sites. Another fab option is to ask your local library to stock it. If you read it and like it, please tell your friends and/or leave a few lines of praise on any bookish site. You’ll make me over-the-moon happy. Baci!