Experiencing imposter syndrome as an international student

Last week I sat at a Blue Chip function for the fraternity I am a member of, talking with potential new members. From the various conversations I had had with them, a unique line of questioning was directed at me, by many if not most of them. Of course, I was not entirely upset, nor were these questions unique to me and me alone but more so a constant reality of the daily experience of foreigners and expatriates:

A moment arises when a peer discovers they are talking to someone who is different, who in some ways is a bigger outsider than any of them have ever been. There is a glint of recognition that comes into their eyes, or a newfound sense of confidence in their strut, as they realize the idiosyncratic nature of a conversation where, although they might be the ones feeling out of place, they nonetheless find themselves playing on their home terrain. Suddenly they are the ones asking the tough questions, and I am the one trying to play a part. I might be the gatekeeper, but they are the ones who already belong.

In some bizarrely nostalgic manner, I harken back to an old childhood fear of aliens in my mind — hidden, menacing, mysterious, lurking in the shadows, walking among us, unbeknownst to all. Except, I am not the one watching out for them. The impostor within me panics — people are on to me, and my cover is under attack.

The conversations continue, and at some point my peers will invariably ask for my name, which usually leads to a semi-cringey, semi-awkward exchange — only semi because it has by now been normalized and ingrained into a part of my daily routine — of me repeating my name multiple times until they finally grasp it. Changing the intonations after every repetition in hopes that one might stick, that one of those repetitions can find heuristic relevance and relate to my audience, putting my full disposition in their shoes — hoping they might be willing and able to perhaps do the same.

And yet, these fraternity rush events are interesting, for while I am still very much the outsider in this arguably most American of environments at the University, it is these potential new members seeking to get in. And so, from a slightly higher vantage point, one is able to observe and learn a lot. These kids give me all of their cultural conventions, attempting to buy favor from my regard, and in observing their attempts I learn so much about their culture and how they think. 

Socialization, after all, teaches one the sociological constructions a group adheres to; teaches one to become an outright member of a place where they don’t necessarily belong. And with this understanding, my plight for developing cultural ambidexterity continues, aware that we were all born aliens.

Yes, we were all born aliens, and all it takes is for us to move to a slightly foreign environment to feel this once again. Just look at these kids trying to rush the house — how nervous and uncomfortable they look, like fish out of water.

Back at the Blue Chip Dinner, I am having a particularly enjoyable conversation with a peer from Charlotte, N.C., discussing “fit” in terms of universities and such — and in a rather quotidian exchange I refer to my experience in the greater Los Angeles area as “studying abroad.” The concept of fit becomes a little more obfuscated when all the potential fits are foreign to a student abroad — even more so now as I’m writing in a language that is not even my own. My friendly peer remarks surprise to realize that I am studying abroad, and welcomes me with a smile to his native land.

I smile at his surprise and gesture, for it is meant with kindness and perhaps only the slightest bit of naïveté. He is not trying to sound mean at how out of place a foreign kid such as myself might feel but instead surprised at how approachable and endearing my demeanor might be; how well I am able to play the part.

And through this conversation, I realize to my satisfaction that I have been quite successful in such a regard, of bringing the foreign into unexpected places and making it natural for it to sit there. For that is the thing about the foreign: It only remains such until one experiences it, shakes its hand, shares a laugh with it. Perhaps there are aliens living among us, but not to worry; for all we know, they might be more human than our own judging eyes trying to set them apart.

Javier Calleja Erdmann is a sophomore writing about the international student experience. His column, “Expat Generation,” runs every other Friday.