Brits on America: July 2008 Archives

I'm a typical white American girl who, typically, is descended from a mix of Western European immigrants and feisty all-American pioneers.

I went to mostly white Arizona schools, a mostly white private college in Minnesota, and, as an adult in Chicago, worked primarily on the mostly white North Shore. So I don't know much about being a minority. Sure, there have been a few occasions here and there--mostly when attending multi-ethnic churches or working at places like McDonalds--when I've been a racial minority or had a different background from my peers, but I never knew what it was like to be marked by any distinguishing socioeconomic characteristic.

Until, of course, I moved to England. After a year being introduced as "Steph The American"; of smiling through endless, familiar conversations with new acquaintances about the differences between America and Britain; and of having all of my silly actions and comments explained away by friends with the slightly infuriating blanket comment, "Well, she's American, you know," I now have a tiny glimpse into life as a member of a minority group.

Please don't send the race police after me. I'm not complaining, and I know my experiences haven't exactly been a hardship. In fact, I enjoy most of them because I like connecting with people for whatever reason (even if I sometimes get tired of having the same conversation over and over and over again).

However, I now have a small understanding of what it is like to go through life with a marker, one that carries all sorts of associations and baggage over which I have no control. Is this what it's like to be black, I wonder? Or in a wheelchair? Or obese? Deaf? It is true that, despite their best intentions, many people will see the characteristic first, and this impression will inevitably color their perception of the person who bears it.

I was at a barbecue in May when I met a friend's fiance. My friends Laura and Tim, who were on the Discipleship Year program with me, were sitting across from us, and as Carl asked the familiar questions about America, I happily discoursed about the differences in our speech, language and culture. Then Tim turned to Laura and I heard him say,

"Is it wrong that I'm getting tired of hearing Steph talk about this?" he asked. "I've heard her have this conversation four or five times this year."

Laura just patted him on the shoulder.

"If you think you're tired of it, just think how Stephanie feels," she said. "She must have it all of the time, even when we're not around."

"Amen!" I said, and we all laughed.

The worst that's happened to me is that I've once in awhile been frustrated or slightly insulted by the way people here make blanket assumptions about the United States and then ask me to defend my country. For an extreme example I need look no further than one day a few weeks ago. I was chatting to a politically liberal friend from Continental Europe and said I was really looking forward to visiting the States next month.

"I won't go there until George Bush is out of power and has finished destroying the country," he responded.

It was a pleasant surprise to discover just how many of my English friends remembered that July 4th was the American Independence Day. I received several congratulatory texts on my mobile phone and lots of messages from friends. It's all just more proof that American culture has permeated English culture. I did dress in the colors of the American flag that day (also the colors of the British flag) and, just for fun, wore as a headband a Stars and Stripes themed bandana I'd received as a farewell gift from my former editor.

One friend, Steve, even insisted on throwing an American Independence Day party which, due to his schedule, was held on Saturday. I wasn't sure what to expect when he picked me up to go shopping for food that evening. I'd invited a few people and thought we'd have a casual evening watching the film "Independence Day," as he'd first suggested. When I asked him, therefore, what he'd done that day, I was shocked when he replied, "I've spent the whole day getting ready for this party."

Indeed, Steve and his flatmate Phil spent Saturday driving around the city searching for American-themed items. They borrowed an American-flag inspired blanket from a friend, somewhere found one of those silly Uncle Sam hats, they'd bought a bag of balloons and blown up all of the red, white and blue ones, and they'd created an iPod playlist of American songs.

The evening's activities included a recitation of "The Pledge of Allegiance" and the singing of the National Anthem. I was impressed that Carmen knew most of the words and that everyone knew the last two lines, although the others just sang nonsense words loudly during the rest of the song as I shouted the lyrics above the din. It wasn't disrespectful, just very lively. When we finished the song the group erupted in cheers and loud chants of "U.S.A! U.S.A.!" It was all quite heartwarming, really, though one or two of them were heard to quip, "We're celebrating the 4th of July because it's the day we got rid of the Americans."

"But Steph," Steve said as we drove to buy food just an hour before the party began, "there's one place where we failed. Nowhere in the entire city of Nottingham can you find an American flag."

However, the ever-resourceful friends decided to craft one out of construction paper, and when my friend Carmen arrived early they set her to work cutting out 50 tiny white stars. The result was stupendous, and about 15 people partied the night away in a truly American-themed flat.

On Sunday I hosted Barbecue #2. I'd invited the eight other women who are doing the Discipleship Year service program with me at Trent Vineyard church to come over for a girly afternoon, but a few days beforehand I suddenly realized that I'd been to a lot of barbecues lately (not to mention hosting one just a few days earlier) and decided I could do with a change of menu. So I asked my friends for permission to make it a Mexican-themed event instead.

On Sunday, therefore, instead of grilling the ubiquitous burgers and sausages, I served slow-cooked machaca, or Mexican shredded beef, along with homemade guacamole, salsa, sauteed onions and peppers and all of the other trimmings. I adore Mexican food and sometimes have to remind myself that it's not at all normal for Brits, who are much more used to curries than tacos. Finding the ingredients can be tricky, as I learned when hosting a similar gathering at Christmas. Back then I had to use kidney beans instead of black beans, as they weren't available at local grocery stores (though Sainsbury's has now started carrying black beans, hooray!) but I did serve delicious homemade margaritas. The funniest thing about serving margaritas, though, was that 18 of the 20 guests had never before tried one. Most people liked them all right, although every single person except me thought it was "minging" (gross) to serve them with salt on the rim of the glass. Once I dipped the glasses in sugar instead of salt, they were happy. But the incident made me realize just how different the food culture of the Americas is from the food culture of Europe.

On Sunday when I arranged all of the burrito fillings on the table and told my friends to dig in, they just stared at me uncertainly. Pippa turned to me and said, "You need to show us the procedure," and so, laughing, I demonstrated how to fill a burrito. "Does the rice go inside the burrito?" Kristen asked. "Well, it can," I said. "That's what they do at Chipotle, and I made the rice with lime and cilantro, just like at Chipotle," but of course they had no idea what I was talking about (especially as cilantro is called coriander here). But we all managed to get our burritos made and everyone went back for seconds and it was all a great success.

The weather wasn't quite so compliant. What had been a sunny morning turned into an afternoon of rainforest-worthy showers, so instead of sitting outside we headed to the lounge where we started the gas fire as the rain slammed against the windows. After we giggled at one another's attempts to keep all of the burrito stuffing inside the burrito (and more than a few black beans had gone rolling across the carpet), I showed my friends a few photos from the Arizona desert and mountains where I grew up. They oohed and aahed at them, then did the same when I showed some Chicago photos.

"Oh, Steph, why on earth did you come here?" Rachel asked. "Here, to boring old Nottingham?"