Belonging Series, Article 1
Hi, I’m Elisabeth.
I’m an American and I’ve been living in Denmark for seven years now. And, if I’m completely open and honest: I still feel lonely.
But I’m not alone. I have met so many international people in Denmark who feel a sense of longing for the community they had back home — the close family and the friends that they’ve had for years, maybe since they were children. The people that you know you can call for help and support.
When we move to a foreign country, especially if the country is far from our own, we lose that sense that we have people we can call on for help. And we lose that social support at the very same moment that we embark on a transition that completely upends our lives. We start all over again, almost like children: We have to re-learn how to speak (a new language), behave (a new culture), and function as adults (a new job, medical system, drivers’ license, shopping experience). It’s incredible when you really think about it: How can we function while re-learning everything about life, and without the support of the community we would usually rely on in such challenging times?
As I’ve met one person after another yearning for that sense of support and community, I’ve started to wonder whether… I don’t know, I feel I need to pause here for some reason, because the idea is a bit radical…could we just choose to be that community for each other? If it’s something all of us want, could we just be it?
This may seem like a silly example, but bear with me a moment for a story:
I desperately miss fresh flour tortillas. I’m from central Texas, and I grew up eating them hot off the stove, wrapping nearly every meal in them. Seriously: we even had them at my wedding dinner. They are delicious, but they represent more than just flavor to me; they represent comfort, warmth, home.
I love Denmark, but one of the sad casualties of moving here was the loss of my beloved tortillas. I arrived and realized (of course!) that the only flour tortillas here are the shelf-stable, mass produced tortillas on grocery shelves. And let me tell you: if you’ve had a real, fresh tortilla before, the ones on the shelves are not even in the same universe.
It’s hard to fully explain the effect of this loss. It’s not just the loss of a staple food item, but in how I think about eating. Every culture has its bread or flatbread that’s used to wrap or support meals, to soak up the drippings, to snatch crumbs from when mom isn’t looking. So I know many of you know what I mean. I have literally grieved for those tortillas (I’m not kidding).
I’ve been trying to master the art of making my own flour tortillas. But it is an art, perfected by hands that have done it so many times that the act is pure muscle memory. There are only a few ingredients, but simple changes in how long you rest the dough, how hot the pan is, how flat you roll them, how long you let them sit on the pan before flipping them… these are the things of which cultural magic is made. And I’m trying to learn this art outside the context of that home culture, without the experienced hands that could pass that deeper understanding to my own.
I live in a small town that’s dominated by a large Danish company (I’ll let you guess which one), which employs a rather massive number of foreign employees that live in the local area. Within a 5-minute drive of my house, I can almost guarantee you that there is someone who makes fresh flour tortillas almost every day. Someone whose house smells like my home, and whose meals are wrapped in my culture. Where are you? Will you be my friend? Will you teach my hands the art of the culture and home I’ve lost?
It’s sounds silly, but my longing for a good tortilla is what brought me to this radical idea, about simply choosing to become the community we are all longing for. Yes, deep connection, friendship, and community is usually built through a long history of trust and shared experiences. But we don’t have that here, and we can’t have it until we’ve spent years and years waiting. I’ve been here 7 years and still don’t have it. So, what if we just decided to show up for each other and behave like neighbors? What if, instead of using my local Facebook group to ask where to find the kind of corn flour I need, I shared instead how much I want to smell and taste and feel and eat my culture; how much I want to learn the smells and tastes of the cultures my neighbors miss too, and share our longing with one another; how much I need to know that I have 5 people locally that I can call for help if I need to go to the emergency room, or my wifi won’t work, or I just need a hug and some tea?
If I commit to being one of your 5 people, will you be one of mine? If I share my (work-in-progress) homemade tortillas with you, will you show me how to make arepas, or borscht, or samosas? Can we build a mish-mashed, messy, colorful, broken, beautiful neighborhood of humans taking care of one another and sharing our experience of foreignness? I wonder if then it wouldn’t feel so foreign anymore.
Earlier this year, I decided to take the biggest leap into the unknown of my life – even bigger than the move to Denmark. I decided to build a (virtual) place for the community I want, and invite others into it. I’ve called it nabo, the word for neighbor in Danish. It’s an app and a website (https://mynabo.dk), and I’ve filled it with every bit of love and warmth I can offer – including tons of guides, workshops, events, and sub-groups to help you find that one person who makes your culture’s version of my Fresh Flour Tortilla.
Joining nabo means committing to being a true neighbor to the others in it, to choosing to connect more deeply with one another, to take care of each other, and to share our beautiful foreignness until it becomes part of the gorgeous fabric of our community.
Anyone can join nabo for free – as far as I’m concerned, belonging is a human right and I refuse to deny it based on finances. I do, however, hope to host this community with my full attention and time, so I’ve requested a contribution of 70 kroner per month from everyone who can afford to pay for a subscription. You can also join free through nabo’s Community Builders Program (sign up here), where you’ll learn how to build and design the community we long for, using the Design for Belonging framework created by Susie Wise at the Stanford d.school. And along the way you’ll get perks and rewards each time you hit a new community building milestone.
To wrap up (get the tortilla pun there?), I want to address you, reader, more directly: Dear neighbor, will you be my friend? Will you teach my hands the art of the culture and home I’ve lost? Will you help me build a new community here in Denmark, where we can all belong? You are welcome and wanted here, neighbor.
