Tag Archives: Culture

The Great British Lie

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It’s strange to be in a country that seems so proud to be British, and yet is chasing the same American dream that – well – Americans chase. We get blamed for a lot, but are copied more.

I’m going to just come out and say it – The Mother country of England wants desperately to be the rebellious teen that is America. (My British friends reading this will probably scream at my audacity, and I understand why. I won’t apologize (or even apologise), but I will say I did not want to come to this conclusion. I was in denial for a long time. And – obviously – it’s nothing personal.)

I’ve never said anything because it wasn’t completely evident at first – at least not to me. I mean, why would it be? When I move to another country, I assume that it will be me doing the assimilating, changing my patterns to fit in with them. I will be the outcast, and yearning to one day be able to soften my vowels. I have assimilated. There are huge differences in our two cultures.

It’s just, England always seemed so sure of itself. So goddamn – well, older and more wise.

I didn’t say anything even when I first began to notice because I was watching, waiting to be sure I wasn’t just seeing things. I’ll admit it: I thought the UK was bigger and badder than it actually is. I was deceived like so many others.

I utterly believed that Simon Cowell and his country knew everything there was to know about life. I mean, if they had a country full of Simon Cowell’s, why on earth would they need us? That’s the irony of it all – they need us. Simon Cowell needs us probably more than we need him.

And, we buy into it. In America, we’re bred to believe the the British are, in some ways, irrevocably more cultured and well-bred than we are. We watch in awe as actors take over our television screens, putting on better American accents than most of us as Americans can do. We are obsessed with the royal family. We giggle when we meet a man or woman with an accent, throwing our hair to one side. We automatically assume they are more intelligent than we are.

Most people think we are full of ourselves. In reality, I think many Americans are insecure about being American. We’ve been hated for so long. It might even be an epidemic.

But, let me let those Americans in on a little secret I’ve found out for myself…many British – not all and maybe not even the majority, but a big enough chunk for me to take notice – they actually wish they were American. (Or, they certainly wish they could live and work there.) Shhhhhhh. Don’t tell them I told you. They will deny it to their graves, and they will curse me to the heavens. But, below are a few things that have led me to this conclusion.

Sure, they complain about us. Sure, they curse us for polluting the Earth just as much as China. Sure, they hate most of our policies. But also, secretly, they love it. Jack Kerouac’s vision of a road trip is still blossoming in the British minds like a prepubescent boy’s first porno mag. Our ability to bear arms is disgusting to them and, at the same time, mesmerizing.

Some examples -

Their election process. It is taking place right now, and is eerily echoing many campaigns I have seen in my own country – more specifically the debates. I am told its because the Lib Dems demanded to have more of a voice against the shadow of the Labour Party and the Conservatives, and for the first time in the UK’s history, they are having staged debates. Actually, it appears that it was the Prime Minister’s idea (and more importantly, Peter Mandelson). The PM realized he needed to jump ahead in the opinion’s poll and therefore realized that a bit of “show biz” might do well for his image. That makes sense. (Ultimately, the UK is even more of a democracy than we are – they have had Question Time and the Prime Minister’s Questions every week since 1979  in which citizens can ask the PM and the people in charge straight forward questions about topics they want answers to. We have nothing of the sort. The most you can hope to question the top decision makers in the US is by writing them a letter, staging a protest (which will get shut down before it starts) or getting petitions signed. I really wish we had a Question Time.)

Normally, the UK’s election process is very different to America’s. (Read more about the differences at the blog, Pond Parleys, here.) However, this year, due to the Lib Dems, they are having American-style interviews and debates in which charisma matters! Its supposed to be all about the policies and yet the candidates and the news programs analyzing the candidates succumb to the pressure of discussing mainly: the candidate’s appearance, their gesticulations and how they eat ice cream with the grannies. (I seem to remember a certain Obama who did that same thing.) It is becoming more about the person, and less about the policies. Just like in good ole USA.

Celebrating the 21st birthday – We are celebrating a 21st birthday coming up, and I’m confused. I am told there are two big birthdays for a British person – their 18th and 21st. OK, I get the 18th one – they become an adult and can legally drink, vote and drive (although not in that order). But, the 21st? I have yet to have someone explain to me why the 21st birthday is a big deal. There was a vague explanation that it marks a British person’s adulthood, but how? What can they do when they turn 21 that is any different from when they were 20?  In America, we can drink legally for the first time in our lives. I can only come to one conclusion – and that is, they are celebrating the ability to drink in America.

Celebrities – no matter what anyone says, it is the goal of every British celebrity to “crack America.” I hear it all over the news, in the newspapers and in interviews – “Oh, if only I could crack America.” In terms of profit, I get it, it’s a bigger market and many record labels and agents want their acts to rake in the most amount of money. But, Hollywood still has the same sexy allure it did back when Marilyn Monroe was alive, and Elvis Presley was topping the charts. America is the ultimate end-all for show business to this day.

Proms – I didn’t realize this, but apparently proms are becoming bigger and bigger over here. Mike from Postcards from Across the Pond makes a good point about these. You can read it here.

Halloween – Trick or treating? The appeal is traversing the pond. Dressing up and having big “fancy dress” parties – same. (Watch Hugh Laurie and Stephen Fry’s take on this phenomenon sent to me by HBLX: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZITno-8HP9o)

I won’t even go into the effect that McDonald’s, chain stores, clothing stores, etc. has had over here. That happened a while ago, and everyone knows the impact of mass consumerism.

There are many more examples, but I’ll leave it at that.

Perhaps it’s just a mutual respect we have in this “special relationship”. After all, how many Americans wish they could live and work here in the UK? I know Smitten by Britain does for sure ;) . I also realize that a big part of my opinion comes from what I see in the media, and the fact that my ears prick up whenever I hear my country being mentioned so perhaps that’s already a biased opinion. I just can’t stop thinking that people feel they are on the wrong side of the pond – on both sides of the pond.

Feel free to shower me with your comments – agreements? Disagreements?

Fully Assimilated?

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It’s come to that point. It’s come to that point where I don’t remember what I used to say in America, and what I began saying when I got here in England. The words, the sayings, the colloquialisms, the phrases – it’s all becoming mushed, mashed, shaken, and definitely stirred, in my mind.

After becoming extremely agitated by a loud, screechy Canadian woman sitting behind us in the bar on Sunday night, I began to think about how much I’ve actually changed. I was so annoyed at this woman and her loudness, that it made me think that if I don’t identify with that brash breed of humans anymore, and yet it’s still in me – where did it all start to change? When did I start to change? My mannerisms, my wordings, the expressions – they’re getting all tossed about, not knowing where they came from.

I’m not sure if I always said “Sat Nav” or if that is a phrase I learned here. In fact, I’m not sure if there is another word for Sat Nav anymore. I don’t remember a time when I didn’t say “I’m knackered” or “I’m shattered” or “I’m chuffed.”

I’m afraid I’ll be scared to drive on the right side of the road. I’m so used to driving on the left side, it’s become second nature. I no longer fear for my life when trying to cross a road on foot – cars trying to slam into me from different directions.

I can’t imagine calling the game “soccer.” It just seems wrong now. When and how did I figure out that I knew all the names of the players in Manchester United? And, when did I begin to understand what Sir Alex Ferguson was actually saying in interviews? I don’t even have to really focus anymore – it just comes naturally.

I can’t imagine having table service in a bar. Or tipping bartenders. Or tipping more than 10% for the waitstaff. The dollar sign is seeming more foreign than the pound sign.

I can’t imagine having my groceries bagged for me at the supermarket, or getting charged additional tax on purchases.

Even my knowledge seems forever changed. I can’t remember the time when I didn’t know Wales was actually a country. Have I always had such a strong dislike for Gordon Brown or was that achieved over here? Did I even know who he was before I moved here?

I also don’t know what I’ll do when I can no longer hear news about such British celebrities’ lives as Katie Price, Cheryl Cole, Peter Andre, Fearne Cotton, Holly Willoughby, the Loose Women, Colleen Rooney and the classy Kerry Katona.

When did Jock and I stop arguing about misunderstandings due to cultural differences? Have I changed so much that I am now a part of that culture? Or, do we just understand each other better now?

When did having a tan become so important? Was it before or after I lost the sun?

Courtney, my childhood best friend, came to visit me a few weeks back. (You can read about it here.) I swear I must have seemed like a schizophrenic – constantly wondering if she knew what I meant when I said something, saying words that were foreign to her but were coming out of her closest friend’s mouth. I’m beginning to feel like I may be changed for good.

It was terrifying for a moment because I thought to myself, “How will I relate to my friends and family when I go back home? How will they even know what I’m talking about?”

Nothing a month back home won’t cure me of, I’m sure.

The American Dream from an Englishman’s POV

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Saturday night, I went out for dinner with the Mather’s and the Mather’s dad. The Mather’s are friends of ours who got married last summer.

After two bottles of wine, we got to talking about the health reform bill, America versus England, immigration, etc. It comes up quite often in conversations over here, but I always glean something different from the conversations, especially when there is an older generation around to put their two cents in…or even their two pence.

It was the father’s interpretation of the “American dream” that I found the most fascinating. To him, the American dream represented an immigrant who came to the United States, and despite the fact that our government doesn’t dish out free health care (well, at least it didn’t), free welfare, disability, etc. – immigrants still fight for a place in our economic and social ladder. The question would be – why? Why does this dream that doesn’t give you anything for free still entice someone to fight, to strain and to yearn to be a part of it? It got us debating the idea that’s behind it, and this fact, and this fact alone still keeps the American dream as the most coveted of them all – opportunity.

It’s the idea that through the stress, turmoil and back-breaking work, one has the ability to come from nothing and work his way up to gain everything. Foreigners still want to become an American citizen, despite not getting free in return. And, although I wholeheartedly believe that the health care reform is the way forward, you can’t help but wonder what type of “new immigrant” this will bring to our country.

In England, the father said between bites of his sausage, immigrants fight to come into the UK so they can become complacent, get free money from the dole, and steal from the National Health System. Now, I’m sure this is a wide, sweeping generalization and doesn’t in any way reflect the range of immigrants coming into England, but you have to wonder why so many English people believe this to be true. Do people want to come here simply to get a free ride? I know this topic brings heated arguments to the table whenever brought up, but it is just something I find fascinating to think about.

In America, we pride ourselves on being a self-sufficient nation. People are so angry with the health care because they are afraid of what this means to that self-sufficiency they work hard to keep. Since living in this country, I have become even more proud of that characteristic most of us hold. I see that we don’t expect anything from anyone else, and when we want things done, we get them done. Service is impeccable, and we’re a well-oiled machine always striving for more. I get frustrated with the placated dullness here. (But overjoyed at the simple, niceties and caring that comes from this.)

Since I’ve lived here, I’ve also become sad about this characteristic of Americans as well. It’s a double-edged sword because as independent as we like to think we are, we are a lonely, depressed and selfish nation. We aren’t forgiving to our workers – we expect them to work full time with two weeks break. We don’t offer much in return, but expect the world. We look down on people who might put their families over their job, mothers who stay at home, or friends who don’t have any aspirations to better themselves financially. Our first question when we meet someone is, “So, what do you do?” Not, “So, how was your day?”

I love it and I hate it about me. It’s who I am though.

There will be repercussions – good and bad – to this health care reform, and let’s hope there will be a future generation who never knew what it was like to have a brother in law declare bankruptcy over a broken jaw, or a family member who had to dish out $3,000 a month because he got cancer, or a mother who you’re worried about falling ill because she isn’t covered.

Yes, the future generation may end up taking it for granted like many in England do simply because they don’t know any different…and we may end up getting some waifs and strays who want to take advantage of our health care…but to me, that’s better than letting our hardworking citizens die.

Will our entire nation begin to harbor different characteristics than the one it was built on because of this bill? Or, is that too much weight to put on one simple delegation?

The Boy on the Bus

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Blocking my face with the bus stop stand from the swift wind caused by the oncoming traffic and the winter weather, I almost missed the little boy standing with his arm outstretched in his tiny business suit. He approached the advancing bus with such ferver that I thought I would have to jump out to save him from getting decapitated. Luckily, he was more adept than I was at that age, and stood resolutely and confidently with one arm up waving down the bus driver. The bus dutifully stopped in front of him, and opened its doors.

This boy was so curious with his tense shoulders and direct, no-nonsense stance. He was like a new breed of eight year old who I could have easily mistook for a 38 year old. But once I boarded the bus, I promptly forgot about him as I fumbled for my change and tried to remember which coins were worth what amount amongst the millions of British silver and copper in my pocket. Once I finally dumped what I had on the driver’s lap and let him deal with it, and the passengers behind me did their best English grumble and tut-tut, I headed to the upstairs level. Double decker’s are the best.

The eight year old had taken my favorite seat right in front of the window, so I grabbed my second favorite row in front of the stairs and stared out the window. The bus took off, Bristol passed me by and my mind wandered. A rumbling of paper turned my attention back to the boy. I watched him as he unfolded the paper, carefully fluffing out the pages as I saw hundreds of other commuters do five times his age. I still didn’t know how to correctly fluff the pages of a newspaper, and I certainly wouldn’t attempt such a thing on a bus of all things. People would laugh, children would cry, and I’d probably get a paper cut.

I got off before the boy did, but he was still reading his paper. I couldn’t get him off my mind, so I told Jock about this strange, abnormal android of a child. Jock laughed, and said, “Yeah, we learn to read the papers at a young age. I remember reading it at his age.” When I asked him about traveling on a bus by himself at that young stage of life, he replied that children don’t have school buses, so they have to learn to ride public transportation. I am still baffled at this when I think back to my days on the school bus, chanting nursery rhymes, making up songs and blowing spit bubbles – for that, was as far as I got to reading a newspaper. (Unless my mom kindly tore out the comics for me – Brenda Starr was my fave!)

Another cultural difference identified.

(Sidenote: I was a little concerned that he may have been reading the Sun newspaper, in which case he would have had full frontal in his face right on page 3. Still don’t understand how the British see nothing wrong with having breasts in their newspapers – but then again, that’s just my Puritan roots coming through….Luckily, it wasn’t the Sun.)

Turkey for Twenty Four

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I have signed up to do another half marathon. The Bath Half. Eek.

Somehow, this is in no way as frightening to me as the prospect of cooking an entire turkey for 24 people. 24!! Ten plus ten plus four! Twenty Four!!

Because that is what I brilliantly signed up to do.

In a moment of clarity last month at our Ladies Who… meeting, between the glugs of red wine and the presentation of vibrators (no, it wasn’t some weird sexual ritual we do at our ladies group…although I’m pretty sure that’s what my boyfriend and all his friends are thinking goes on..it was Ann Summers), I had volunteered to host the next evening in November. Not only for Ladies, but also for Gentlemen.

It made sense.

We hold our meetings on the last Thursday of every month, and in America, the last Thursday of the month of November is…that’s right folks…Turkey Day!

No one was holding a knife to my neck saying “You must help America conquer the world by stuffing turkey down 24 British people’s throats, and sharing our tradition!” No, in fact, I’m pretty sure no one even asked me what Thanksgiving was, nor asked me if I could bring our weird tradition of, as Jock calls it, “stuffing-ourselves-silly-a-month-before-Christmas-just-like-we-do-at-Christmas-time-but-with-no-presents” to the British Isles.

In fact, it’s become quite difficult for me to even describe to questioning Britons why we actually do it.

I mean, why do we do it to ourselves? That’s what I want to ask my fellow Americans on this first Thanksgiving away from home. Why?? Not why like, “Why could we possibly want to get together with family and have a nice meal?” But more like “Why does this holiday still actually exist?”Saturday Evening Post 1923

The pilgrims and the Native Americans never got along. They definitely never had a big dinner on Plymouth rock (OK, apparently they did have a dinner – there goes my knowledge of history!), and I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t really care if we continued this tradition or not. When I so naively invited these 24 people to my house for this evening of Turkey, Cranberry sauce, Stuffing and Pumpkin Pie, and a few did venture to ask me what the day was all about, the only thing I could muster was “It’s the day we give thanks…I guess?”

And, that seems like a pretty good explanation. Wouldn’t you say?

So, they don’t know it yet, but I’m planning on making the evening even more uncomfortable than it already will be with 24 people crammed in our small house, badly cooked turkey and not enough cutlery or places to sit by asking them all to give a reason why they are thankful.

I will ask for silence.

I will ask that everyone take a moment, and then go around the house and share what they have to be thankful for. After all, it’s what my mother would want me to do.

And, inside I will be giggling wildly.  Oh, they’re going to hate it! I mean, it’s bad enough at home in America where we’re supposedly good at sharing emotion and deep thoughts. But here? Here?! They would rather give up such British institutions as Tea or Cadbury…oh wait, they’re already giving up that one…or the Queen! Yes, the Queen!, they would rather give up the Queen than share deep emotions.

Ok, I’m exaggerating. That’s going a bit far.

I would never subject my poor friends to such cruelness I had to go through as a child.

I’d just ask them to write down what they’re thankful for on a piece of paper and put it in a bowl. And, later, I will pull that bowl out and read them all aloud. Or write them all down and email them in a mass email. Or just post it on here. Or make billboards and hang in front of said person’s house…

_______________________________________________

Back to the turkey I’m trying to cook. How did my mom do it? How do moms around the world do it? I’m having panic attacks lying in bed at night thinking about hosting a party for this many…

Let’s be honest. I had never cooked an entire meal for more than two…count them…one, two…people before last year. But, being the Lady Who Lunches, I found it was my duty (haha, I said duty) to learn how to cook. Not do as most Ladies Who Lunch would do and hire a personal chef, but no, I wanted to cook. Because, as much as I do love stir fry and the ease of flipping meat and oil in a pan, after two solid months of Jock and I eating the same combination of three ingredients (i.e. meat, onions, peppers), I decided there needed to be a change.

So, yes, now I have had three, I would go so far as to say, successful dinner parties since then – for FOUR people. FOUR. Not TWENTY FOUR. But FOUR.

And yes, I have ventured out of stir fry into such realms as Jerk Chicken, Mango-filled Cream Puffs and Asian Five-Spiced Chocolate Cake, and besides the Chocolate Cake, all has come out well.

And, even though stir fry was a drastic change from my single days of popcorn and wine for dinner, skipping lunch and instant oatmeal for breakfast, cooking for 24 people seems a bit more extreme coming from small dinner parties, doesn’t it?

But none of you will feel the least amount of pity for me when I tell you that I have help. Gasp! I know. I confess it. I had to dish out some of the sides to the other ladies. I couldn’t do it all. Sob. I had to pass the baton to the others. Cringe. And here is the final blow – I am not wonderwoman. In case any of you were in doubt. I am not WonderWoman. All that fan mail gone to waste…

This Thursday, I am a Lady Who… asks for help when I need it.

And, I seriously can’t wait for Thanksgiving. I feel like I did when I was a little girl and got my newest Roald Dahl book for my birthday, staring at it knowing that it would be filled with joy, adventure, strange and sometimes off-colour English humour, and best of all, fantastic stories. I wonder what the others will think…

Oh, but one more thing. To put added pressure on myself, I asked all the ladies if they would read my first 100 pages of my newly edited book for feedback. I’m finished editing page 50. Only 50 pages to go in a week!

So, what are you thankful for?

P.S. Stay tuned for a tea giveaway….