Fitting In

The year we lived in Norway, my husband’s cousin was overly concerned about the type of school backpack we brought from America for our son.  It wasn’t Norwegian, and he was sure he’d be ridiculed because it was different.  The cousin worried our son wouldn’t fit in.  His fears were justified.

A Norwegian woman I know, now in her fifties, told me when she was in elementary school, her left hand was tied behind her back every day, and she was forced to write with her right hand, because she was naturally left-handed.  The government felt it wasn’t “normal” to write left-handed and they wanted her to fit in with the rest of the children.  They don’t do that anymore, of course, but it’s still fresh in people’s minds that “fitting in” is of utmost importance.

For generations, the name of every newborn had to be approved by the government before a birth certificate was issued.  They didn’t want children feeling like they didn’t fit in because they had an unusual name.  One cousin named her daughter Roda, which is not a common name in Norway.  Initially, that name was rejected, but when it was submitted again, showing reference to where it was in the Bible, it was approved.  It may not be a common Norwegian name, but the government didn’t want to argue with God’s Word. However, it took six months before the cousins knew if their baby would be called Roda or not.

Immigrants, of course, now have the worst time fitting into Norwegian society.  Many can’t even get jobs because they have foreign names.  Some are legally changing them to Norwegian sounding ones so they at least get called in for an interview.

This past summer, one of the political parties in Norway went on record as saying that all immigrants need to “dress like Norwegians, speak Norwegian, get jobs, respect Norwegian culture and values, adhere to the proper use of welfare benefits, and generally behave impeccably” before they should be allowed permanent residency.  They want them to fit in to Norwegian society in every way possible.

I often hear talk about this sort of thing when I’m in Norway.  Norwegians hate it that immigrants cluster together, still speak their native tongue, and don’t even try to fit in to Norwegian culture.  In those moments I get far too much pleasure in telling them about my Norwegian ancestors immigrating to America, and how my grandfather, the second generation to be born on American soil, could only speak Norwegian until he entered school.  How, in his little world of Norwegian immigrants in North Dakota, all business was transacted in Norwegian, church services were held in Norwegian, and newspapers were printed in their native language even a century after the first immigrants arrived. “How’s that for fitting in?” I ask.