Americanism: Abroad

November 2000- On a morale-draining cold and damp night eight years ago, I was on a train between Bruges, Belgium and Amsterdam, the Netherlands. America was still in the mists of the suffocating grip of the first “indecision” as all eyes were on the Florida recount. Instead of spending the few hours catching up on much needed sleep after an exhausting international conference, I sat through an hour plus lecture on the irresponsibility and narrow-mindedness of America.

In the near decade since, I have spent 447 days abroad (yes, I recently counted) including in places that are neither as friendly nor as safe as the border of Belgium and the Netherlands. Over and over again, I found myself in situations where I was requested, with various degrees of assertiveness, to justify policies that I had no part in formulating. Without even realizing it, I developed a defensive attitude about being American.

In an interesting paradox, America is both admired and despised abroad. Surprisingly some of the harshest criticism would come from the citizens of America’s closest political allies, and without question the highest acceptance of my nationality I’ve experienced was in China.

My master’s program in London is incredibly diverse as are my friends. I asked a group of them on Tuesday, how many of them ever pretended to be a different nationality abroad. The question was met with complete silence. Unfortunately, many American travelers would understand when I say that at times when people asked me, “Are you American?” with that certain hostility in their tone, the question was easier to answer, “No, I’m Canadian” than the truth. It had nothing to do with a personal unwillingness to defend the principles and virtues of the United States but more to do with a disinterest in being verbally crucified for decisions of a very controversial administration…again.

The world is not to blame for their frustration because, truthfully, they have a significant stake in the American elections. The world might not pay taxes, but I certainly have no claim to say I feel policy decisions more than an Iraqi or an Afghan citizen on the most extreme side of that spectrum. Seeing an American on the street is the closest that many global citizens are going to get to the American politicians who make those sweeping decisions. After all, as part of the American collective, I did vote them into office.

All the above makes this past week that much more heartwarming. I went to class on Wednesday after the elections like every other day though I was significantly more tired. Standing in the hall before class, one of my Norwegian classmates tackled me in a giant hug and kissed me on the cheek. Her intense joy left her speechless, which is very uncommon for those budding orators in the political field.

That incident was hardly the only one. Throughout the day, classmates came up to me and patted me on the back or gave me a hug like I had just swam the English Channel, saved a baby from a burning building, or some other noble feat. I heard so many “Congratulations” that by the end of the day, I actually started to respond, “Thank you”. Even strangers, as soon as they heard my accent, would cheer me. I am certainly not talking only about the British; London is a smorgasbord of cultures and passport holders.

I’m not going to discuss policy alternations or the ramifications of U.S. party changes on the global arena. What I can say for certain, is that for once, it’s nice to be an American Abroad.

In the Beginning

This story begins like many others before it with one restless student in the middle of a city of very non-restless people. After six weeks among the Tories and Tom Fooleries of London, she hoped on a bus and traveled to a mostly unknown town called Oxford.

Upon stepping off the bus, the young explorer realized that she was wholly unprepared for this wilder corner on England. The friend whom she was supposed to meet was nowhere to be found, and everyone around her stared, knowing that she did not belong among the ivory spirals and skyward towers of Middle Academia.

Help arrived in the form of a brief orientation of the land of Oxford and a map. Before long the explorer set out in the chilling day on a quest to discover the mysteries of the fabled city. Our formerly London sheltered student crossed the bridge, and just like stepping through a wardrobe, she found herself in a completely different environment filled with curious characters. Researchers and academics hovered over stacks of sources like dwarves over their treasure troves; tattered facility members mumbled odd formulas; and guards as thick as trolls patrolled the entrances to the different colleges.

As she stepped among the marbled scholarly sanctuaries, a harsh wind pulled at the ends of her coat. The weather had been cold in London but nothing like the frigid Oxford air. It made her wish that she grabbed one of her heavy Chinese coats before heading out the door. The Winter Queen maintained a strangling grip on the bustling village. She clung to the bell towers and pressed down on the cobbled streets and gothic buildings with a disheartening cold that stifled laugher at the very thought and hastened travelers to their destinations away from the cold.

The girl pressed onward on her little journey. Every turn unfettered a new amazement. The adventurer passed under covered bridges with stain glass windows sparking in the determined spurts of sunlight that cut through the clouds. She wandered though the endless courtyards within the library complex until she wrapped around a knoll-shaped library wing. The girl even watched in resigned jealousy as students filed into the courtyard of what she knew to be Hogwarts and wondered cynically if future witches and wizards knew a shortcut to completing her upcoming presentation.

As the sun set and a light rain began to fall, the girl scurried into a cozy pub thick with decades of memories of smoke and heated debates. The Owl and Child is known for once being the meeting place of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. The two great authors would sit together and discuss the surreal fantasies of their literary worlds and are the inspiration for this post. Maybe visiting the pathways and pit stops once patronized by such imaginative masters will provide a little motivation to a certain London weary girl…