The Problem with America: Meditations on the Fourth of July
Amy Thiltges
Flipping through the French journals that are piled indiscriminately on the back of my toilet, I begin to contemplate the complex issue of European-American relations. Having been married to a Frenchman for over a year, I've gone through several stages of cultural defensiveness, self-loathing, and acceptance of the good and bad aspects of my country. Although most of the Europeans I've met have turned out to be thoughtful, sincere, and generally decent human beings, there always seems to be a rather unnerving hurtle to cross whenever us meets them.
What I've noticed mostly is that Europeans are generally more aware and more critical of us than we are of them. What the average American knows about Europe could fit into a photo-filled coffee-table book. They have many beautiful buildings, which we would all love to see, but the natives are rude and they must not — because we have been told so — bathe often. Also, Americans generally do not approach a conversation with Europeans in the same way that they approach us. Americans are taught from the time we are babies to be, for better or worse, nonconfrontational.
Thankfully, most Europeans don't nurture such radical ideas, knowing that a lack of confrontation usually means a lack of intellectual engagement. The thing that gets me, though, is the way that most of the Europeans I have met approach America and Americans. They seem to feel that it is their duty to point out, from the onset, what's wrong with us, just in case we were under the naïve impression that they respected or admired our culture. Recently I had a conversation with a Spanish woman who had been living in the U.S. for nearly five years. I asked the obvious question "Why did you decide to move here?" To which she immediately replied, "I never wanted to move to America. I never desired to come here. I had no fascination with it whatsoever. I moved here to marry an American who I met in Spain." Then, just in case it wasn't clear the first time, she reiterated, "I never had any desire to come here at all." To give her the benefit of the doubt, I imagine that she had been confronted at some point by one of those Americans who believe that everyone who comes to this country is pursuing a life-long dream of working in a convenience store and paying for basic health care.
Some, especially of an older generation, assure themselves that the world is full of second class citizens, all beating down our national doors in order to get what we have. Once my husband and I were having a drink with my grandmother, who after a couple of brandies, leaned across the table to tell my husband, "You know, this is the best country in the world." My husband, understandably, was annoyed by this comment and has never really forgiven my grandmother. I can't say that I blame him. If I was in France, I don't expect that I would appreciate someone saying the same to me. I also would probably be less than impressed if there were French flags waving from car antennas or gracing the fronts of T-shirts and ball caps. Near the Champs Elysées and the Eiffel Tower there are plenty of tank tops and berets for sell with French flags on them. The difference between us and them is that a French person wouldn't be caught dead wearing one of those. If you see someone wearing an article of clothing with a French flag in France, you can bet the mortgage they're not French. It's not that I think there's anything wrong with a certain degree of cultural pride. Heaven knows the French have that in abundance, but where Americans seem to go wrong is when they confuse pride and nationalism, which should always be kept in check, lest we become a country that only values ourselves, ignoring the fact that we are members of an even larger community.
I'm not sure about the rest of the country, but this Fourth of July, instead of putting on a red, white, and blue T-shirt and complaining to the neighbor about the recent developments concerning the change in our pledge of allegiance, I'm staying home and avoiding the crowd. Like the French, I'm going to exercise my liberty by enjoying the finer things in life: good food, good wine, and engaging, if confrontational, conversation.