The topic I'm attempting to examine? My own cultural identity.
Outright, I'm American. Born and raised. I remember (vaguely) when Clinton was first elected and the legacy of McDonald's and 90's alternative rock is as ingrained in my DNA as 9/11. Honestly, "Where were you when the towers fell?" has become my generation's equivalent to "Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" - a question so uniquely American that I wonder if it has any significance anywhere else.
Before I go on, I have to point out that I've been living in England for the past month, and this is my second long-term stay (the first was for nine months, three years ago). I have adopted this country as my own home and it has adopted me. More than once my boyfriend has told me that I was born on the wrong side of the Pond and I've had an American tell me I had a "very British aura". I drink more tea than any British person I know, I innately adhere to the British sense of courtesy (ex. drowning man says "Excuse me, could you possibly give me a hand if it's not to much of a bother?" as opposed to "HELP ME, DAMMIT!!!!!"), and am more inclined to laugh at Monty Python and Rowan Atkinson than I am Jeff Dunham or Carlos Mencia. Since arriving in London a month ago, that British "identity" has expanded to prefer certain British word choices over American ones ("torch" for "flashlight", "hob" for "stove"), to accept British music as "better" than American music, and to simply be more British in general. Although that last item is frustratingly vague. To my point - living in America I have always felt like I was on the wrong side of the Pond, that I had a different sensibility than my fellow American, and living here I find myself easily slipping into a British cultural identity. Tea and torches and rain-soaked cobbled streets? Yes please!
Is this a good thing? Maybe. It certainly helps me feel less exotic among British people - instead of being a Dodo among magpies I'm just a mocking bird among magpies. Slightly different, but not enough to cause a fuss. But I'm still American! Down to the core and that can't be changed! There's a sense of individualism, a sense of speak up and getting straight to the point (cursing for emphasis if need be), that can't be found in Britain. And though I am not as loud and outright as some Americans, I still feel the need to fly an American flag out among the Union flags and blare Sum 41's "Fat Lip" over Adele.
Much later:
Post to remain unfinished. I forgot the exact train of thought but I still am aware of how..."other" I am, both in the States and in England. There's a kind of rock n roll sensibility about America. It's the alternative American narrative about personal freedom, not freedom in the symbolic sense that seems to be constantly employed in political rhetoric, but the simple freedom in being allowed to do what you want with your life. The narrative that includes the idea that you wear denim and t-shirts because you're casual and comfortable and free, that includes the spaces where everyone knows you but you can still be quiet.
Maybe, then, it's not the American narrative that I adhere to in any sense, not even the one I've created just now. Maybe it's the JUNEAU narrative that I secretly adhere to (if you're a stranger reading this blog, I lived in Juneau, Alaska for nine months prior to my time in England): the story that talks about the coldest, shittiest weather with the longest, darkest nights that suddenly transform into the best weather with the longest, brightest days; the quiet people who wear denim and extra-Tuff boots and heavy coats because in the face of nature they stand strong; but they respect and love the nature around them, they're proud of the mountains that tower above them, the winds that threaten to tear the city of 30,000 apart, the choppy sea that isolates them, and the constant rain and fog that clings to their skins and souls; the artists who band together and CREATE to protect themselves and other from the gloom; the rock n roll sensibility that means going to a bar and having a beer and listening to a band (whose members all do this because they work for the government during the day) try to bang out "China Grove"; the people that just...wholeheartedly take you in so that you find yourself napping on their couch for Thanksgiving or eating halibut and watching crappy movies with them; the people that put "Southern Hospitality" to shame.
I guess that's it. I'm not American after all - I'm Alaskan. And it doesn't matter if the people in Alaska don't consider me Alaskan or if the people I met there don't even remember me, it's the Alaskan narrative that I hold close to my heart, even while I'm in Britain. And it makes sense, because I'm just like Alaska: American, but so distant from everyone else's definition of "American" that I might as well be foreign.
Glad I cleared that one up. :)
Much later:
Post to remain unfinished. I forgot the exact train of thought but I still am aware of how..."other" I am, both in the States and in England. There's a kind of rock n roll sensibility about America. It's the alternative American narrative about personal freedom, not freedom in the symbolic sense that seems to be constantly employed in political rhetoric, but the simple freedom in being allowed to do what you want with your life. The narrative that includes the idea that you wear denim and t-shirts because you're casual and comfortable and free, that includes the spaces where everyone knows you but you can still be quiet.
Maybe, then, it's not the American narrative that I adhere to in any sense, not even the one I've created just now. Maybe it's the JUNEAU narrative that I secretly adhere to (if you're a stranger reading this blog, I lived in Juneau, Alaska for nine months prior to my time in England): the story that talks about the coldest, shittiest weather with the longest, darkest nights that suddenly transform into the best weather with the longest, brightest days; the quiet people who wear denim and extra-Tuff boots and heavy coats because in the face of nature they stand strong; but they respect and love the nature around them, they're proud of the mountains that tower above them, the winds that threaten to tear the city of 30,000 apart, the choppy sea that isolates them, and the constant rain and fog that clings to their skins and souls; the artists who band together and CREATE to protect themselves and other from the gloom; the rock n roll sensibility that means going to a bar and having a beer and listening to a band (whose members all do this because they work for the government during the day) try to bang out "China Grove"; the people that just...wholeheartedly take you in so that you find yourself napping on their couch for Thanksgiving or eating halibut and watching crappy movies with them; the people that put "Southern Hospitality" to shame.
I guess that's it. I'm not American after all - I'm Alaskan. And it doesn't matter if the people in Alaska don't consider me Alaskan or if the people I met there don't even remember me, it's the Alaskan narrative that I hold close to my heart, even while I'm in Britain. And it makes sense, because I'm just like Alaska: American, but so distant from everyone else's definition of "American" that I might as well be foreign.
Glad I cleared that one up. :)
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