Jane Colvin
London Literary Non-Fiction
2005-11-22
Dr. Dilks
Yes I Am an American:
No, I Don’t Know Any Cowboys
Why don’t I just wear a sign around my neck with large print ‘Yes, I am American.’ No matter how long I live in London, I will always be seen as a tourist, an alien, on the outside and never getting in. I will always be asked if I’m on holiday, or if I’m Canadian. When travelling abroad, it just comes with the territory. The American stigma has become my shadow that I feel I must defend with my stellar Judo moves.
I haven’t really learned anything from this quick progression of annoyance, except a growing tolerance for it. I have become so frustrated with being different at times, because no matter how I dress, walk, do, or go I am kicked back to the starting line when I reveal my accent. So, here I am in London running in this never-ending marathon of being different. Ugh! I just want to fit in!
Living in London for four months does not make me a British citizen, but I feel as though I have become somewhat a part of London. The overwhelming newness of the city has worn off. London was like a new pair of shoes, but now the soles are scuffed and the laces frayed and they need some Fabreezing. I’ve broken the city in. It’s comfortable now. I know that the cheapest Chinese restaurant within walking distance is right around the corner, and if I want to get to my favourite book store I know to take the Piccadilly line to Charing Cross and walk two blocks to the right to find the Sherlock Holmes mannequin in the windows surrounded by mystery books. I can now get through the checkout line at the local Sainsbury’s quicker than ever before because I’m not studying the coins trying to figure out if I have a 5p or 20p. And when I travel outside of the city, I always look forward to getting home. I have come to the stage where the cramped, outdated, squeaky mice-infested flat has become home. And my real home back in good ‘ol Washington Missouri has became ‘my other home’.
So why am I so incredibly grumpy? I am, after all, in one of the most exciting and popular cities in the world. Right? Well, it’s because I have to go through the following every time I want to buy some groceries, play ticket, or if I’m out at a pub with my friends:
‘You American?’
Yes I am American! Can’t you read the giant sign I’m wearing?
Growing up, the ‘Midwest politeness’ is practically shoved down your throat like a mama bird feeding her babies. Of course, I automatically answer, ‘yes’ with my smile I have been taught. Thanks mom. And that word then sparks an infinite list of questions. Usually the next one is:
‘Are you on holiday?’
Then:
‘Do you know any cowboys?’
The cowboy inquiry is a cute and unexpected fascination this side on the pond. But of course, you can’t have all sweet apples on a tree. There is always a sour one you accidentally bite into, a lot. Like during the past Guy Fox celebration when a group of my fellow American comrades where enjoying a pint before the fireworks blastoff. An old man, wrinkled and greying with age approached the six of us and asked me in particular,
‘Where are you from?’
‘The states.’
He giggled in an all knowing way as he said, ‘Well, yes that’s obvious.’
‘Well, a lot of people mistake me for a Canadian.’
‘Oh, I see. But it would be better if you were Canadian.’ He started giggling again, but in a way that said he wanted me to join in. I did not. Did he honestly think he was funny? Maybe he would enjoy it if I told him it would be better if he were Australian instead of British.
Maybe I am being a bit tough on the Londoners. After all, they do not know they are the one hundred and forty third person to ask me if I am on holiday. They do not know the inner frustration and struggle I am going through. Most do seem genuinely interested about where I am from. Maybe it’s more like looking at a rare breed of bird that can talk and you can ask it questions. Maybe when I chose to study away for a semester I also unknowingly submitted myself to the London Zoo of Exotic Worldly…Things. You get the visitors who read the description on the aquarium with care and study you closely because they want to learn something. And you get their kids tapping a rhythmically annoy beat on the glass taunting how weird you are with unabashed whines. Yeah, that’s me; Homo sapien Americano.