Whenever I go back to the UK I always feel like I become a different person – the old me, the real me; the American me is just a fake who has adapted her personality to fit in. When I’m in the UK and people ask me how I am, I can say I’m well, or I’m fine thank you. Here well and fine just aren’t positive enough, I have to be “good” thank you. At what?
I have to respond with enthusiasm when an exuberant sales assistant asks me how's my day, or whether I need help, putting on this uber happy façade that everything is hunky dory and we’re all having a great time.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a miserable person – in fact people on both sides of the Atlantic regularly remark on my calm, cheerful disposition (one of my American friends once asked me what I was on to retain such an air of chirpy vitality!). It’s just the insincerity which bugs me, and the fact that I am party to it.
American politeness is prolific and my natural reserve could easily be mistaken for rudeness. I want people to like me. When I am here I have to watch what I say. When I’m back home it doesn’t matter if I slip in the odd four letter word or don’t elucidate – my old friends aren’t easily offended and they understand. Here I have to think before I speak, always aware that many Americans are highly religious and may take offence at a slip of the tongue or a blasphemous exclamation. I have to remember people don’t always understand my accent, I have to cut out the innits, sound my H’s, leave out the T’s and make a big show of using hand sanitiser. (Personally I’ve always thought a little bit of dirt helped increase one’s natural immunity, here I’m just one of those unhygienic Europeans.)
Back in the UK I felt clever; we joined in the quiz night at a local pub and I could answer the questions. Here I watch TV, pick up a newspaper or flick through a magazine and have no idea who or what everyone is going on about which leaves me feeling rather stupid. I don’t understand the rules of baseball, I’ve no interest in American politics, I don’t know who stars in what soap, the names of the Kardashians or Brad and Angelina’s children.
Whilst we were home we went watch our local football team Southampton play at St Mary’s stadium and it was such a relief to be able to follow the entire game without the constant interruptions which dog American sporting occasions. No time-outs; no total team changes; no commercial breaks; no to-ing and thro-ing of the crowd during the match to fetch giant hot dogs and buckets of Pepsi. Just real men on the pitch for a continuous 45 minutes in the pouring rain and fans who remained in their place and were able to endure a food free hour and a half.
In fact the only disturbance was when the rather loud but verbally challenged man behind me celebrated so vigorously as Saints scored their second goal that he fell on top of me. This man had very limited vocabulary - throughout the entire game he had been giving a running commentary and every other word began with an F, the game had fluctuated between being effing beautiful to effing rubbish - one adjective suits all. Although I wasn't hurt when he tumbled onto me, I was shaken. Had this incident happened back in the States no doubt I could have instigated legal proceedings, as it was I just accepted his effing apology. It was good to be home!
In fact the only disturbance was when the rather loud but verbally challenged man behind me celebrated so vigorously as Saints scored their second goal that he fell on top of me. This man had very limited vocabulary - throughout the entire game he had been giving a running commentary and every other word began with an F, the game had fluctuated between being effing beautiful to effing rubbish - one adjective suits all. Although I wasn't hurt when he tumbled onto me, I was shaken. Had this incident happened back in the States no doubt I could have instigated legal proceedings, as it was I just accepted his effing apology. It was good to be home!
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