Expat By Rebrand Only
Same actions, different names. Turns out, all I needed to be was French and confident.
Original Art by: @Pixie.neon.pulse
There aren’t many things I truly hate in the world. I know I yap and complain a lot, but at heart, I’m an optimist. It’s usually my idealism that brings me here to vent, because honestly, there’s no reason the world should be in such chaos. It all reeks of inefficient mismanagement and ego.
But alas, we move.
Before we do, let me squeeze in one more complaint: double standards.
I HATE DOUBLE STANDARDS WITH SUCH A VISCERAL PASSION, IT MAY ACTUALLY BE MY UNDOING.
Let me plead my case. You can tell me if you agree (but if you disagree, kindly go argue with your grandma’s headstone, because this is my page 😊)
Back to the point.
There are so many double standards out there. The classic: men can engage in all sorts of heinous, slutty behaviour, but the moment a woman tries to compete, it becomes a moral crisis. That one’s iconic. A classic. Definitely belongs on the cultural shelf next to Titanic.
Then there's the rich versus poor version. When the rich live simply, it’s branded “minimalism.” When the poor do it? They’re just lacking.
These double standards are everywhere, but my personal pet peeve lies in how we frame language.
Rock with me here.
When I found myself visiting Morocco, Malaysia, and Dubai, I met all kinds of people from all kinds of places. Many had uprooted their lives and settled in these countries. Curious, I’d ask:
“Oh wow, what’s it like being an immigrant here?”
I asked this question (innocently) to a French man who ran a café in the heart of Marrakech. I, an immigrant, was keen to hear the lived experience of another.
But the look he gave me, and the guffaw he guffawed, told me everything I needed to know; before he even opened his mouth. Still, I’ll share what he said:
“I’m not an immigrant. I’m an expat!”
Reader, I short-circuited. Glitched. Swallowed the red pill and unlocked the matrix.
My brain went into overdrive. The comebacks that flooded in required a four-day rest period just to return me to my default setting.
Because… what?
Same act: moving to another country. But the label of immigrant does not apply?
But then again I understood. You see, “expat” carries the gloss of adventure and prestige. “Immigrant” is laced with struggle, legality, and suspicion. One gets café culture and curated aesthetics. The other gets “randomised searches” and interrogated at the airport.
It’s not about the act of moving. It’s about who’s moving, and how the world sees them.
But here’s the twist (I told you I’m an optimist).
After the smoke cleared from my ears, something clicked. I was reborn.
That French man was onto something. If the only difference between “immigrant” and “expat” is skin deep, then guess what?
I, too, am now an expat. Why not?
I am not unemployed… I’m on sabbatical.
My clothes aren’t old… they’re vintage.
Let the rebrand begin 😉
Thank you for reading 🕶️
I love the drawing haha!