Think Globally, Write Locally

Having just spent some time in an airplane many thousands of feet above Planet Earth, I can attest to the fact--there are no boundary lines etched on the face of the Planet. Despite all of those globes and maps with neatly drawn lines demarcating where Canada is versus the USA, Illinois versus Missouri, it's all imaginary. The soon-to-be-watched flag-waving rah-rah of athletes representing various countries at the Olympics, just humans doing the super-human.

With two grandsons living outside of London, I get that although Londoners and Chicagoans both speak English, there are tangible differences.  Take language, for example. The toddler goes down for his sleep (nap) in his cot (crib) in a clean nappy (diaper). The older grandson comes home from reception (kindergarten) to eat toe-mah-toes while we Yanks eat toe-may-toes. The daughter cooks aubergines (eggplants) and mince (ground beef) for their tea (dinner or supper, depending where in America you grow up).

So although my family thinks globally, we also speak locally. And although I live the wider world, I  also live in a neighborhood.  It makes a difference. In a neighborhood, you get the local POV, rumor and sense of the place. And yes, I'd read about the new fashion of outsourcing news. The idea that someone in Timbuktu would write a local story about, say the South Loop of Chicago. WTF NIMBY right? OMG, BH,too outré for even this ex-expat, that is it was until I read the firsthand account by a whistleblower.

And to think I'd continued my Chicago Tribune subscription to support LOCAL journalism, more the fool I.



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    Candace Drimmer

    I was an accidental expatriate; love and marriage led me to it. One day I was a bandy-legged kid sitting atop my dogwood tree looking out of my small backyard world in 1950s New Jersey, wanting to move somewhere--anywhere, different. Next thing I knew my father had accepted a job in Houston TX. I was ecstatic, it was a foreign land in 1961 America. After high school graduation, my parents’ gave me a matched set of fawn-colored hardsided American Tourister luggage. Taking the hint, I went to college; well four colleges in five years--it was the 60s after all. Meeting a young hirsute anti-war, soon-to-be-Peace Corps volunteer, I fell in love. After finishing up college coursework for my degree, but before I even walking a graduation stage, I grabbed the paper airline ticket my boyfriend had sent me, my brand-new passport, and was off to the airport and Lima, Peru.

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