On Immigration and Immunology

Psycho-neuro-lingual-endocrin-immunology, anyone?

I’ve been a gushing fangirl of neuroscience for a while (holds up a sign that says, “Your music saved me!”), and as I find myself exhausted and learning my fifth language purely via osmosis, it’s been a gateway to neurolinguistics. I’m hopelessly fascinated by not just how the physical brain learns and manages language, but how language and culture actually shape the brain, mind, and personality.

My husband mentioned studies that have shown that multilingual people shift personalities when they shift language, and I enthusiastically confirm: I’d recently been playing with the sound of my own voice, noticing the complete tonal, facial, and behavioral difference when I switch among English, French, Romanian, and Hungarian (the German is still just me choking on my own uvula). It makes sense because we learn those languages in different contexts, from different people, within different cultural environments, so our brains will simultaneously wire into our neural networks the traits of the people, places, and circumstances that coincide with our language learning. For reasons I cannot explain, the number 6 is perpetually Romanian.

I used to be really good at learning languages, but I often joke that “Hungarian broke me.” My neurons suddenly fired and I realized: oh my god, is that literally true? Since my life and health fell apart while experiencing several cultural and linguistic shifts, I’m now really curious about the interplay between those parts of myself and my brain, my body, and my illness.

A healthy immune system relies on self-knowledge, a knowledge of Self. The basic function depends on one single formula: me or not me? Friend of me, or foe of me? If we know our selves, who we are, and what we want to be as we own and inhabit this body, only then will we know what “foreign bodies” will help us become that authentic person: probiotics, nutrients from food, medication, things that bring me joy – these are “not me,” but “friends of me,” our body’s villagers, that our immune systems should become acquainted with and allow through the gate without an attack. Conversely, when we know what we are not, what is not good for us, and what doesn’t help us be our selves (a parasite, a virus, a toxic GMO, a destructive belief, fear, etc.) our immune systems can efficiently react against these adverse “foreign bodies” – attack, sequester, deny access to our foes.

Would it not follow, then, that when we immerse ourselves in a different culture – be it a new community when we move away or start our own families, a new stage of life like college, career, or retirement, or a whole new language and ethnic paradigm when we move abroad – that our bodies and brains will become temporarily confused about what is “me” and “not me,” what is “my body” and what is a “foreign body?” Any time we go through a fundamental growth and change, even natural ones like puberty or menopause, our bodies have to re-learn what is “me.” And isn't that when the diseases and disorders come out? Life is about becoming; it’s about constant growth, change, and flow. One would think evolution would have taught our immune systems to constantly grow, change, and flow gracefully with us. One would think we are a sensible and intelligent apparatus capable of managing the very function we were custom-built to perform: life.

But are we even allowed to develop that natural state of flowing with change, in our minds, bodies, brains, and immune systems? What culture, what language are we born into that nourishes an environment and vocabulary of growth and change, and more importantly, in one’s own time, capacity, and schedule? Can it be one in which we have medical standards of development that, if not met within arbitrary “normal” parameters, are diagnosed as disorders, dysfunction, and disease, and then interfered with, arrested, or forced with treatment? Can it be one in which parents invariably moan, “Oh, they grow up so fast!” and “You should know better, grow up, act your age!” Can it be one ruled by inanimate textbooks and manuals and standardized expectations? Can it be one that shames, hides, punishes, and capitalizes on sexual development, menstruation, nocturnal emissions, body odor, acne, breasts, hips, and things dropping all over the place? Can it be one that takes a child in the throes of such change and says, “Now do it right and properly because your future depends on it… your college, your marriage, your career, your eternal damnation to heaven or hell is on the line right now?” “Toddler, grow up!” “Child, be a man!” Can it be one in which we tell the wisest, "You're old, gray, ugly, and wrinkly; you have no value anymore. You are a drain on the system." How can we develop healthy immune systems when our modern culture is constantly telling us that natural growth, development, and change is "foe of me?"

I was literally rushed into being born, a C-section of convenience. My medical records would indicate my immune system wasn’t ready yet, and then left devoid of the transference of natural childbirth/nursing. And even then – I was literally born this way! – I came out fighting: my dad’s first impression of me is recorded in my baby book: “The first thing I noticed was how feisty you were as you screamed at the top of your lungs and swung wildly at the doctor with your fists.”

A big proud-mama smile and hug for my little inner child. I’m still swinging, and still screaming: Can you just let us be?  Can you just let us grow and develop with our brains? Must you rush the body before it’s even equipped to handle the life you demand of it?

I remember being in preschool, 4 years old, coloring with crayons at a table full of snot-nosed little kids, and as we scribbled furiously at our papers, one little prophet piped up, “I’m taking my time.” I didn’t know what that meant, but it sounded adult, important, and wise. And I knew I was definitely coloring right. So I declared, “I’m taking my time too.”

Oh, the mouths of babes. It took more than 30 years for me to make an honest woman of myself and slow the f*rench down, while my brain, body, mind, and spirit learned to catch up and wait for one another so I could finally, finally, become a whole, healthy person. I learned to take my time.

I learned the hard way, but as I always say, I didn’t get this stupid on my own – I had help. When I went to Europe for the first time and every bone in my body screamed, “You belong here!” and my heart, brain, and mind said, “Oh yes we do! Let’s grow together!” I obeyed. I learned the language, the culture, the music, the people, the new deep, deep resonance within myself… then came the “help.” Then came the standards and the expectations and timelines, the traditions, the rules, the religion. “You’re young and bored and live in a fantasy; it won’t last,” “You can’t just pick up your life and leave,” “You need to be trained first,” “You need a job,” “You’re being irresponsible,” “You’re so selfish.”

I sat for a long time in that conflicted, uncomfortable growth. I only understood years later that it was outgrowth. I was outgrowing my own past, my own foundation. My own brain, and perhaps even my own immune system. But I was raised in a system where God never changes, and neither should our faith and obedience. Neither should our gender roles. Neither should our boundaries and sheepfolds. Jesus’s words about sending the sheep out to pasture to follow a shepherd’s voice, not stay locked obediently in the safety of the fold, are some of my favorites. I eventually resurrected myself, my body, brain, and immune system on those words.

But for the next 8 years, I loved the growth of my mind and heart, and desperately feared the growth of my body and soul. My Self was fractured. I moved to my third language and culture before returning to my hometown and realizing I was a complete stranger. A foreign body in my own life. A foreign body to my own immune system.

Then one fine day, a leggy little tick decided it had a hankering to eat at Jess’s Crawl-Up Diner. It left its dirty little napkins and spills full of spirochetes and rods and protozoa. Were they friends or foes? Depends – what kind of establishment is Jess running here? She has no f*renching clue? Perfect. Free real estate up for grabs! Let’s break ground on the Unholy Church of Lyme and Co-Infections and start a death cult!

Lyme is a s*hifty disease. The microbes are nasty guests that no one deserves to have in their bodily home. We need testing, research, treatment, prevention, advocacy, and care. But remember those systems that make their own standardized rules and timelines to the detriment of our natural flow? They grow money. They grow power. They don’t give a s*hift about your personal growth and development, brain, body, immune system or otherwise. They speak a different language than us humans: politics.

So listen to the Unknown Hero of preschool class 1990: I’m taking my time. I’m taking MY time. I’m TAKING my time. I’m taking this life and running it on my schedule. I’m taking this immune system and training it to guard my holy city. Not Lyme’s city, not Babesia’s city, not Bartonella’s city, not Depression’s city, not Media’s city, not Government’s city, not Economics’s city. Jess’s City.  Jess’s House. Jess’s Temple. It’s mine. You respect my rules, or you will not thrive here.  I’m learning the language I want to speak, and teaching it to my immune system; I’m adopting its culture, its cuisine, and its expectations: Jess. Human. Wholeness. Balance. Rest. Respect. Dignity. Patience. Love. Octopuses and guitars.

I went into remission and then moved abroad again, twice. Jess is now a dual resident of two foreign cities, two foreign cultures, languages, cuisines, and expectations. The “help” is creeping in again. “You have to learn the language,” “You have to respect their culture,” “You need to get a job, or you don’t deserve assistance or benefits,” “You need to go back to school,” “You’re here on a marriage visa, you better be barefoot and pregnant or you can’t stay here.” “You need to hit the ground running on your remission or you’re wasting your life and you’re going to slip into depression and relapse and it’s going to be your own fault.”

Baszd meg… und deine Mutter.

I’m taking my time, and being a “bad” immigrant. My whole life and body just changed. I lay on my deathbed and talked to God a few too many times. In many, many ways I have died and been reborn. This baby human doesn’t need to be rushed, doesn’t need any more help being stupid. My immune system is not going to have any idea what is “me” and “not me” – and still doesn’t know the difference between a potato and a protozoan – until I reorient my Self. My first priority is speaking the new language of my Self: my body, my mind, my spirit, my values, my purpose. And when I find that in a particular place or culture, then my brain will stop rejecting the language as foreign, and open up the drawbridge to a new friend, giving it permission to do the transformative landscaping of my language centers. I'll get there, mein kleiner Wiener Grantzl. Just give me some time.

What’s the next stage of healing? Fluency.