Acting American

Walking down the street, I sometimes get this feeling like I belong. With my brown hair and olive skin, if I throw on my most stylish clothes I am told I can almost blend with the crowds of Spanish women. Those girls with brown hair and put-together outfits, however, really just make me want to give up and jump back into my sweatpants, pull my hair into a ponytail, and welcome that roll-out-of-bed look that I so love to wear to my classes in the States. My fellow study-abroad students and I are here, however, trying to learn about the culture by living in it and embracing it. So we thicken our accents, wear make-up every day, and try to stay away from all things that scream ‘American!’ But really, what for?

For years Americans abroad were ashamed of claiming their country, thanks to the embarrassing international reputation of our government, namely our President. Now that the Bush era is over, it appears that President Obama has made it possible for ex-pats to feel more comfortable acknowledging their true citizenry. Although we still speak English quietly when walking down the street, continuing to feel as though we should keep our American-ness to ourselves, it has nothing to do with being ashamed of our country; we all just want to fit in and be cool… like the Europeans.

At least, that was how most of us felt when we first arrived here. Averting our eyes when walking passed H & M, glancing with disgust at McDonald’s and Starbucks and all those inside before walking with heads high into the Spanish café chains, where we could purchase a coffee the size of a tequila shot with less of a kick. Thinking we were superior because we were denying the consumer habits of the motherland helped us to push through caffeine withdrawals and unsuccessful shopping excursions for about a month. Then the hard times hit. Those days of exhaustion so familiar to college students; passing a school day without enough sleep, more than enough work to be done, hours of walking just to get where you need to go, and an extra splash of difficulty in the sporadic inability to construct a decent sentence in either of the languages that you are supposed to have mastered by this time… This made the longing for something familiar, something to inspire, comfort, and offer a eye-opening kick in the rear, become too powerful to deny any longer.

Walking through the glass doors of the Starbucks we had been doing our best to ignore on the way to classes each day was like walking into a cultural vacuum. Looking around at the familiar color scheme, the counter of coffee condiments, the racks of Starbuck’s special CDs and books and mints, I could have been back in Ann Arbor, Michigan if it wasn’t for the Spanish names on the, otherwise exactly the same, menu. Smelling the strong, wonderful scent, my breath caught in my throat. I actually almost choked up a little.

Why had we been avoiding this place, this heaven on earth, this marvelous invention with strong coffee, large sized cups, and seasonal flavors that bring back memories of home with a single whiff? “There’s a reason Starbuck’s is everywhere,” Carolyn said, “it’s good.” Did we not realize that we were living in contrast to very basic rules of the likes of Barney or Sesame Street? We had been denying who we truly are and we were not being ourselves? Qué lástima! How pathetic it is to try to come across as a native… and fail. Even with my semi-ethnically-ambiguousness, even I wasn’t deceiving anyone. We were just behaving like fools. How can we expect to be understood or accepted “in spite of” our American heritage in countries that continue to hold onto “stupid-American” generalizations if we as Americans are unable to accept it ourselves?

I’ve decided not to be ashamed of my own culture and native country. No matter how I manage to pull the wool over the eyes of the people I meet abroad, when it comes down to it, I am from the U.S., and there are plenty of reasons for me to be proud of this fact. In addition, I am not a bad person, every American is not stupid, fat, or loud. We are not all rude, most of us, and at the very least I, respect the traditions and beliefs of other cultures and countries. So I wear my North Face, listen to my I-Pod as I walk to class with a Venti Starbuck’s, black coffee in my hand and a backpack on my shoulders. As a gang of Spaniards walks by shouting “Hello! Hello!” as though trying to make it very clear that we do not fit in and never will; I am aware that everything about my appearance screams ‘American’, and that is fine with me.