External judgment.
Being an American abroad opens one up to all kinds of judgments about our culture. I guess that's a danger when everyone else seems more acutely aware of your culture than you are of theirs. I get questions about George Bush and Obama and the wars. Movies and taxes and health care and rock stars. Most of these questions I can't answer, and a lot of them I don't even have opinions on. It's amazing how many times I'm criticized for not knowing more about American pop stars.
One night a few months ago I was in the pub downstairs when a man heard my accent and came over to talk to me. This is a pretty common occurrence, because anglophones tend to be targets for commentary.
This particular guy, though, said something weird. He walked right up to me and asked if he could shake my hand, which, in France, is a business sort of thing and not a met-in-a-bar sort of thing. He then said, quite excitedly and in heavily-accented English, that his name was Pierre (of course it was), that he was a forester, and that he wanted to thank me for being American. This confused me, so I asked him why. And he told me that he was glad I was American because of the help my country had given his in World War II.
I was a bit shocked by this statement. Neither of our parents had even been born when this war took place, and I clearly had nothing to do with it. I remembered every single time I'd heard an American make a joke about the French not being grateful enough that they don't speak German, today. And about every time I've heard an American say "freedom fries" out of spite.
I get a new and strange perspective on my own culture every day I'm here. I think I may be learning more about the US than I am about France, weirdly.
One night a few months ago I was in the pub downstairs when a man heard my accent and came over to talk to me. This is a pretty common occurrence, because anglophones tend to be targets for commentary.
This particular guy, though, said something weird. He walked right up to me and asked if he could shake my hand, which, in France, is a business sort of thing and not a met-in-a-bar sort of thing. He then said, quite excitedly and in heavily-accented English, that his name was Pierre (of course it was), that he was a forester, and that he wanted to thank me for being American. This confused me, so I asked him why. And he told me that he was glad I was American because of the help my country had given his in World War II.
I was a bit shocked by this statement. Neither of our parents had even been born when this war took place, and I clearly had nothing to do with it. I remembered every single time I'd heard an American make a joke about the French not being grateful enough that they don't speak German, today. And about every time I've heard an American say "freedom fries" out of spite.
I get a new and strange perspective on my own culture every day I'm here. I think I may be learning more about the US than I am about France, weirdly.
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