I dated a Brexit leaver

 

Yes, I did. In my defense, I’ll say that I didn’t know he was a leaver before I met him, and that I’m living in Cambridge, where everybody voted Remain. He had introduced himself as a businessman who made lots of international deals, so of course, I assumed he was a knowledgeable man and, therefore, a remainer. Besides, how would I have imagined that a leaver would be so callous as to date an EU national just now, in the present political climate?

My misgivings began when he arrived fifteen minutes early to the venue and texted me that he was already waiting for me – as if I should have guessed and arrived early too. Arriving too early is still impunctuality. Expecting others to guess and comply with your wish is just preposterous.

Soon after we greeted each other and sat down in front of our beverages he introduced the subject himself. First I thought I had misunderstood. But then he insisted: “I’m really excited about it”, “it” meaning Britain opting out of the European Union. My blood drained out of my head and I felt sick. There was I, at a Starbucks, with a cup of Earl Grey the size of a small pond, facing one of the persons who, with their vote, had made my life (and the lives of three million EU nationals in the United Kingdom) a misery of nerve-racking incertitude. Did he really think that his position would endear him to a woman with a Spanish passport? I should have left right then. But, like a rabbit caught in the headlights, I remained – remained! – in my seat.

I have always given people a chance, so I checked myself and decided I had to give him the chance to explain to me his motivation for voting Leave. Wasn’t he a businessman? Yes, but it turned out that the didn’t do much trade outside Britain (in spite of his previously boasting so). Wasn’t he afraid that the financial big money presently in the City of London would leave the United Kingdom? Well, he didn’t think so, as who would want to move abroad if they were based in London? The word “chauvinist” came, perhaps unfairly, to my head.

I tried to focus: wasn’t he afraid that Brexit would mean more difficulties in getting labour hands, for example? He told me that a friend of his, who has a very large farm, had been assured by UK government sources he would still be able to hire his (foreign) hands. So, he concluded, if these (apparently illegal!) workers would still be able to come to work to Britain, even more would the EU nationals be able to stay in this country, as the British government would protect their rights. I wondered out loud how would he be so sure, when just a couple of weeks ago the British parliament explicitly rejected a motion to protect the rights of EU nationals living in Britain now. He dismissed this, saying that “at the end of the day” (he repeated a lot this phrase, “at the end of the day”) free trade is what moves all nations, so nothing would really change. “If you are not a protectionist, why vote Leave, then?”, I asked with my sweetest voice. And then IT came out of his mouth: “To take back control!”. Yes, yes, he said it. And he topped it off with: “The European Commission is not elected at all, but designated”. Even then, I tried for him to see reason: “But the legislative body is the European Parliament, where Britain has a large representation through its numerous MEPs”. Dare I say it? He was impervious.

After what felt like the longest thirty minutes of my life, he became aware that only he had talked at length at all, and asked me perfunctorily what was I working on. I explained that, after over three decades of visiting the United Kingdom for research purposes (mainly paid out of my savings; some lucky times out of a small Spanish research grant – and always bringing my money to Britain and never ever receiving a penny from this country), my plan had been retiring early from my academic post and, in order to be able to stay in this (in spite of all) beloved country, to complement my meagre Spanish pension with some freelance work as an editor. But that, I added, had been before the Brexit vote. Now I, as the three million EU nationals officially residing in the UK included my daughter, worried about what would be of us first thing in the morning, and kept worrying at bedtime. I lived in fear for me, for my brilliant daughter, for her partner, and for every EU national so unfairly treated by this country, whose present prosperity they have all contributed to.

Were you to expect any penny dropping, any apologies, any polite reconsideration – any embarrassment at all, you would be deceived. He carried on explaining to me that, “at the end of the day”, nothing was going to change: that the European Union was going to keep on trading with Britain as usual; that only a stricter border control was going to be applied (but, he added, making an exception for the labourers the UK needed). When I reminded him that free trade and free circulation of citizens were indelibly linked in the EU treaty, he dismissed it: “The EU is going to keep on trading with us, as it has always done, of course”. I – still sweetly – asked him to suggest one British product the EU couldn’t get somewhere else. He changed the subject.

By now I was frankly looking at my watch: I had spent less that one hour with him, and it felt like a lifetime. Did that callous man really speak for the majority of the British population? I could not believe how heartbroken I felt right then in my love for this country; how that man had gotten to deeply hurt me with his nonchalant lack of respect for my feelings as an EU national; with his unkind insensibility – in just a first date! I was speechless.

And just when I thought that date couldn’t go worse, his new conversation subject made me sit up: “And that’s why people around the world is discontented and have voted for Trump in America”. Okaay… Even then I wanted to think there was some intelligence in the man. “Yes, I agree that inequality is rampant in the present world and that people are desperate. But you don’t agree with Donald Trump’s line of government, do you?” Any response that wasn’t “Not at all, of course!” would be tremendous. And it was. He expressed a euphemistic agreement: “Well, I don’t know”.

“You don’t know?”, breathed I. “Well, he may bring something good, you know”. With my last wisp of energy I said: “Yes, he may bring to America what Hitler brought to desperate Germany in the nineteenth thirties: fascism”.

My feeling of nausea was by now too intense. I couldn’t stay there; not one more second. I just said so, relieved to express my true feelings even in a sweet manner. “Look, M”, I said, sad but firm, “I would never date a man of your convictions”. I got up and left.

Would you believe he did not get it, not even then? I turned back and saw he was trying to follow me. In horror, I broke into a run. I ran and ran through the street, and didn’t stop until I came into a crowded mall. Like somebody secretly hiding from a wicked spy, I kept looking behind my shoulder, and trembled while pretending to assess some ghastly flowery skirts not my style at all.

I was finally alone. Phew! And then the ridiculousness of the situation broke in, and I started laughing out loud, before the puzzled look of a shop assistant.

I still refuse to accept that my disgraceful date represents the main attitude of British citizens. I have known them first hand since 1977. I know most British people are kind, considerate and respectful towards intelligence. I know them. Yes, there is another type of Briton – or should I say, another type of Englishman? – and this time I had had a close encounter with one of them.

Did I give up on this country’s men, after that? Well, the answer is no. I’m looking forward to my next English date – and crossing my fingers so that I meet the good type of British man: a male intelligent, considerate and kind.

Will he be the proverbial cold fish? No worries on that front: I know how to melt them. *Winks*.



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