Man. It just occurred to me: kids are just plain screwed. I just saw an ad that made me realize that if parents play their cards right, technology can ruin the existence of every teenager in the world. RUIN, I tell you.
Picture the scene:
A teenaged son calls his mom, dutifully "checking in" at the appointed hour of ten. [For your convenience, Truth will appear in brackets.]
"Hello."
"Hi, Mom."
"Where are you?"
"At Tom's house" [No, he is not.]
"What are you doing?"
"Watching a movie." [Drinking a beer. He now is hiding in the basement closet to dull the sound.]
"What's that noise?"
"The TV. We're watching Aliens." [That was not the alien roaring; it was Tom -- who is also not at his own house -- puking all over the door to the very closet in which our hero hides.]
"Oh."
"Yeah, so, I'm going to go now and watch the rest of the movie." [He's going to go now and drink the rest of the beer.]
"Are you drinking?"
"No." [Yes.]
"Jimmy."
"Mom, no." [Mom, yes.]
"Show me where you are."
"Uh. What? Show you?"
"Yes. You wanted the new-fangled 4G phone with the video-talk thingy. Show me where you are."
[Jimmy binds up in places he didn't learn about in anatomy class, in which he carries a C-minus, which his mother knows about, owing to the advent of computer grade books with parental access. Jimmy vomits inside the closet.]
"What was that?"
"The movie, Mom. I gotta go."
"Dad's coming to pick you up. Where are you?"
"What? Uh -- I'm at Tom's." [No, he's not.]
"No, you are not. The phone shows you at . . . 423 Ocean Ave in Oceantown. Call me back on video. Right now."
Jimmy laments the weight that's been saddled upon him by his new Christmas present. Santa is a frigging turd. [No, he is not.] Jimmy calls her back on video. Jimmy has no choice.
Mom sees the boy's face, sweaty and pale. The arms of woefully out-of-fashion coats are lined up behind him. Mom doesn't know whether she is more disgusted by the garrish garments or by Jimmy's wan, drawn, post-vomitic expression.
"Are you in a closet?"
Jimmy is no dummy. Jimmy knows he is doomed. "Just come get me, I guess."
"Dad's already half way there. If you are smart, you'll just stay in the closet until he knocks."
Jimmy ponders the possibilites and decides sitting still in his own filth just might be the wisest move. "Are you gonna take my phone away?"
"Nope." She hangs up.
Mom dances a triumphant dance with her phone, which she kisses repeatedly, triggering an "ap" that is able to find bonfires in the local woods via satellite. She shuts it off.
"Not yet, my pretty. Not yet . . ."
Overhead shot of a suburban neighborhood. We hear an echoing, evil laugh emanating from Jimmy's mom's house, which is joined by similar laughs from other houses in the neighborhood, then from the world, until we are looking down on a globe that is ringing with the Halloween-witch laughter of billions of victorious techno-parents.
Mommageddon has begun.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
Does NFL Football Need a Pope?
I get that standards of dress have relaxed over the years. My dad, born in the mid-thirties, says he and his family always used to put on suits and ties to go to the doctor's. And if you can rely on old movies, no one went outside without a jacket or hat from the dawn of hats (which some experts place at the first time a chinchilla died on the head of a particularly sedentary neolithic man) until about 1960. But things are changing, even in church. In an era where churches can't afford to force people to be uncomfortable in the already uncomfortable pews, the dress codes are relaxing.
Regardless of this faltering standard of dress, people seem to make an effort to do something to spruce up in church: jeans and not shorts in the summer; maybe a sports jacket over the golf shirt for the older chaps. You know, a hat tip to the people's respective version of the Almighty. Just a kind of, "Hey, God. You hooked up the world with . . . you know . . . being a world, and stuff, so the least we could do is not come in with our knobby, hairy knees jutting out all over the place."
But I am baffled these days, watching the faithful shuffle in under the ringing bells on Sundays. Have we actually allowed the football jersey to replace the suit jacket? I can't believe the numbers of folks who wear their teams' gear to worship -- presumably worship of the deity to whom they have committed and not the team to which they have committed. But it does look foggy.
I'm not making a cry for return to tradition. In fact, I hate dressing up and I have said elsewhere that I would prefer to see symphony orchestras in jeans and T-shirts. But, honestly, this all shows sort of a spooky split in faith. For believers, half of Sunday goes to the heavens and half goes to football? (Actually, if we are talking time, more than half goes to football -- maybe five times as much.) Man, if that doesn't say something about American sensibilities, I don't know what does. I mean, people actually "dress up" in their football regalia to go to church, now.
So let's organize this -- just give football its own Supreme Pontiff. Then we can make people choose between football and their current faith. It could be the new schism. Henceforth, we could work out the problems with the pigskin instead of the sword. Of course, we will have to add football strategy to the curriculum in the seminaries of the world. Does anyone know a priest or minister who can throw a guided missile through a defensive line?
Regardless of this faltering standard of dress, people seem to make an effort to do something to spruce up in church: jeans and not shorts in the summer; maybe a sports jacket over the golf shirt for the older chaps. You know, a hat tip to the people's respective version of the Almighty. Just a kind of, "Hey, God. You hooked up the world with . . . you know . . . being a world, and stuff, so the least we could do is not come in with our knobby, hairy knees jutting out all over the place."
But I am baffled these days, watching the faithful shuffle in under the ringing bells on Sundays. Have we actually allowed the football jersey to replace the suit jacket? I can't believe the numbers of folks who wear their teams' gear to worship -- presumably worship of the deity to whom they have committed and not the team to which they have committed. But it does look foggy.
I'm not making a cry for return to tradition. In fact, I hate dressing up and I have said elsewhere that I would prefer to see symphony orchestras in jeans and T-shirts. But, honestly, this all shows sort of a spooky split in faith. For believers, half of Sunday goes to the heavens and half goes to football? (Actually, if we are talking time, more than half goes to football -- maybe five times as much.) Man, if that doesn't say something about American sensibilities, I don't know what does. I mean, people actually "dress up" in their football regalia to go to church, now.
So let's organize this -- just give football its own Supreme Pontiff. Then we can make people choose between football and their current faith. It could be the new schism. Henceforth, we could work out the problems with the pigskin instead of the sword. Of course, we will have to add football strategy to the curriculum in the seminaries of the world. Does anyone know a priest or minister who can throw a guided missile through a defensive line?
Friday, October 15, 2010
The Biggest Loser?
I watch The Biggest Loser sometimes. I usually watch it while enjoying snacks. Fatty snacks. Delicious snacks. But as a person who has to work hard to keep his Olympian figure (hey, you can't see me, so what the hell -- I look like Brad Pitt and I am built like the Bowflex guy), I understand what it means to deal with weight issues, as do the rest of the people in my family, so I can certainly empathize with obese America; I'd be right there with them if not for at least intermittent attention to my diet and exercise. But something about The Biggest Loser bothers me. In fact, it rends me asunder. It makes my superficial Jeckyll deeply critical of my secretly sadistic hide.
Can't we just be nice? Surely, the show has a heart to it and it chases a socially helpful goal. But why can't we stand to watch a show that isn't tainted with scheming and ax-dropping? Must these people be made to eliminate each other? What's with our fascination with "elimination" on our reality TV shows? Can't it just be a contest to see who loses the most weight, in the end? No, it can't. That wouldn't hold the dark appeal that morphs people into cathode ray bathed, TV watching zombies who eagerly devour the rubber-necking, car-wreck gaping joy we all share as if it were freshly harvested brain stew. It seems there is nothing more satisfying than watching fast friends, dripping rivulets of maudlin tears, voting each other out of the only situation that can save their overweight lives.
Stephen King wrote an essay called "Why We Crave Horror Movies" in which he gives his position on our dark natures and how they manifest themselves in creepy behavior. He attempts to explain -- quite well, I might add -- why we are drawn toward death and gruesomeness. Well, my topic is not as extreme, but what I see does throw devil horn shadows on the wall behind us as the blue light from the screen dances around us.
We enjoy seeing people succeed, sure, but we also enjoy seeing people fail. Alarmingly, we enjoy seeing friends getting forced to kick each other out of Camp Salvation. There are paradoxes galore around the show. Even the title implies this with its multiple meanings: He's a loser because he is big; he loses the most pounds, so he is the biggest loser of weight; he fails in his attempt to lose weight, so he is a big loser. Et-freaking-cetera.
When all is said and done, the show wants to help its cast, unless the rest of the cast is forced, by the design of the show, to cut off the help for some big loser who couldn't lose enough that week. (In fairness, I am not sure how much the show sticks with the contestants after they are "kicked off" -- if anyone knows, let me know.)
Then you have, as on other reality shows, reoccurring criticism, by both cast and home viewers, of the person who is doing too much "game playing". This, I do not get. You go on a show to win, right? I mean, the dangling carrot (besides not dying, someday, of cardiac arrest while clipping your toenails) is $250, 000. So, now, we let you on this show and offer you lots of money if you win and we offer you a shot at a new life if you lose lots of weight -- a task that is clearly made easier by the twenty-four hour assistance of the two most famous, successful trainers in the world -- but we expect you not to try too hard to win, because that is mean. Adam, meet the serpent. Serpent, Adam. The rest of us will decide if you continue to deserve this chance to live a long healthy life, thank you oodles and oodles.
(Did someone say "noodles"? Or cupcakes for that matter! Eat twelve of them and you can have a big weight advantage reward. Forget the fact that, every season, you have watched people eat them and then cry because of guilt and because Jillian then scratches out their eyes with a salty pretzel rod in a fit of righteous rage. Stuff those cheeks, pal. It is all a game and this gives you the advantage. Oh, wait -- that's wrong -- it is not a game -- or it shouldn't be. You are here to lose weight and to help your chubby chums do the same thing. So -- I guess don't eat the cupcakes. And hug that poor girl hard before you push her out the door.)
After all is said and done, perhaps it is good enough that when the sappy MIDI music plays at the end of the show and we watch an encapsulated video summary of all of the flab of the past (bouncing and wobbling in dramatic, deeply disturbing slow-motion) turning into the muscles of the bright future, it is all forgotten that, for an entire season, we simultaneously enjoyed seeing people lose ridiculous amounts of weight while dismantling each other's chances of winning (and criticizing them for doing this) all whilst spooning Ben and Jerry's into our gaping, critical, head-shaking, teary-eyed, empathetic faces.
Perhaps we, the audience, are the biggest losers? (In a bad way.)
WHADDAYOU THINK?
Can't we just be nice? Surely, the show has a heart to it and it chases a socially helpful goal. But why can't we stand to watch a show that isn't tainted with scheming and ax-dropping? Must these people be made to eliminate each other? What's with our fascination with "elimination" on our reality TV shows? Can't it just be a contest to see who loses the most weight, in the end? No, it can't. That wouldn't hold the dark appeal that morphs people into cathode ray bathed, TV watching zombies who eagerly devour the rubber-necking, car-wreck gaping joy we all share as if it were freshly harvested brain stew. It seems there is nothing more satisfying than watching fast friends, dripping rivulets of maudlin tears, voting each other out of the only situation that can save their overweight lives.
Stephen King wrote an essay called "Why We Crave Horror Movies" in which he gives his position on our dark natures and how they manifest themselves in creepy behavior. He attempts to explain -- quite well, I might add -- why we are drawn toward death and gruesomeness. Well, my topic is not as extreme, but what I see does throw devil horn shadows on the wall behind us as the blue light from the screen dances around us.
We enjoy seeing people succeed, sure, but we also enjoy seeing people fail. Alarmingly, we enjoy seeing friends getting forced to kick each other out of Camp Salvation. There are paradoxes galore around the show. Even the title implies this with its multiple meanings: He's a loser because he is big; he loses the most pounds, so he is the biggest loser of weight; he fails in his attempt to lose weight, so he is a big loser. Et-freaking-cetera.
When all is said and done, the show wants to help its cast, unless the rest of the cast is forced, by the design of the show, to cut off the help for some big loser who couldn't lose enough that week. (In fairness, I am not sure how much the show sticks with the contestants after they are "kicked off" -- if anyone knows, let me know.)
Then you have, as on other reality shows, reoccurring criticism, by both cast and home viewers, of the person who is doing too much "game playing". This, I do not get. You go on a show to win, right? I mean, the dangling carrot (besides not dying, someday, of cardiac arrest while clipping your toenails) is $250, 000. So, now, we let you on this show and offer you lots of money if you win and we offer you a shot at a new life if you lose lots of weight -- a task that is clearly made easier by the twenty-four hour assistance of the two most famous, successful trainers in the world -- but we expect you not to try too hard to win, because that is mean. Adam, meet the serpent. Serpent, Adam. The rest of us will decide if you continue to deserve this chance to live a long healthy life, thank you oodles and oodles.
(Did someone say "noodles"? Or cupcakes for that matter! Eat twelve of them and you can have a big weight advantage reward. Forget the fact that, every season, you have watched people eat them and then cry because of guilt and because Jillian then scratches out their eyes with a salty pretzel rod in a fit of righteous rage. Stuff those cheeks, pal. It is all a game and this gives you the advantage. Oh, wait -- that's wrong -- it is not a game -- or it shouldn't be. You are here to lose weight and to help your chubby chums do the same thing. So -- I guess don't eat the cupcakes. And hug that poor girl hard before you push her out the door.)
After all is said and done, perhaps it is good enough that when the sappy MIDI music plays at the end of the show and we watch an encapsulated video summary of all of the flab of the past (bouncing and wobbling in dramatic, deeply disturbing slow-motion) turning into the muscles of the bright future, it is all forgotten that, for an entire season, we simultaneously enjoyed seeing people lose ridiculous amounts of weight while dismantling each other's chances of winning (and criticizing them for doing this) all whilst spooning Ben and Jerry's into our gaping, critical, head-shaking, teary-eyed, empathetic faces.
Perhaps we, the audience, are the biggest losers? (In a bad way.)
WHADDAYOU THINK?
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Message in a Baby Bottle
Breaking news! The famous gynecologist, Gerhard Von Schniggle, has just made an amazing discovery: It seems the kicking of babies, in the womb, is actually a kind of communicative code that reveals that fetuses actually have an ability for complex, pre-linguistic communication that is lost at birth. He theorizes that the replacement of amniotic fluid with oxygen alters the brain chemistry immediately upon first breath, consequently causing babies to have to re-acquire the ability to "speak" over a period of years.
He has released a transcript of "kick-speak," as he calls it. The results are fascinating. Here is a message from the baby of Mr. and Mrs. Ted Cadwallader of Mont Alto, Pennsylvania, as transcribed by Dr. Von Schniggle, October 4th, 2010 :
Mom and dad -- it's me, your son. I know you are thinking of naming me Leo, but I would really prefer Gary -- but that is not the point. I need to fill you in on some stuff before it is too late. Some if/thens, really, that I know to be true about our relationship to come over the years. I know these things now, though I'm not sure why -- I'm getting messages wired in from somewhere. Sorry about the bladder-kicks, mom, but this needs to get through to you before I lose it.
First, you need to be patient with me. I know you know that, but what you don't know is that I will drive you to episodes of confusion and anger the likes of which you have never known. I will behave in completely irrational ways that will drive you to the limits of your endurance by keeping you awake to all hours of the night. You can't blame me, and you have to stay at the top of your game no matter how tired you are. I need you. Try to remember that.
Second, I really am sorry about the smells I will produce. I have no good excuse.
Third, you need to stick to your guns while you are raising me, no matter how hard I cry and whine. This is a test. I will test you. If you take my cookie away because you have warned me several times that this would be the consequence if I punched the dog in the nose again, I will cry to see if you love me enough to stand up to it. I will do this into my teenage years, except crying will turn into yelling. I will never really believe you love me if you let me get away with things for complaining.
Fourthly, stock up on Cheerios. They will be an excellent tool for behavior management, but you will find them around the house until you reach retirement age. I want to be up front with all of this.
Fifth, when I start talking to you, listen to me. No . . . stop nodding. Seriously: listen to me. Don't go all vacuous and wide-eyed and talk like a bad kindergarten teacher. Don't patronize me. Talk to me and listen to me. If you don't take me seriously, I won't take you seriously when I am a teenager. Fair's fair. Don't blame me for our communication problems if I have had to spend ten years being talked to like the village idiot.
Sixth, you will miss the diapers, so don't wish the time away. Dad -- I kid you not, my friend -- you will enjoy changing me if you give it a shot. You will find there is no feeling like watching your little guy walk away clean and comfortable, new diaper crackling around the room under a "onesy". So don't be a wuss. (Oh, and never refer to time spent with me as "babysitting". That will piss mom off.)
Seventh -- play with me. Don't worry about not knowing how. I'll show you how. If you play with me, I will be made as happy as I possibly can be made. I will be convinced you care about me and I will learn from you. And remember, when I get interested in things like video games and I talk about them in non-stop rolls that break Guinness records for time-span, remember to still listen. Each of my progressive interests will be the most important thing in my life at the time. Don't give me the feeling that those interests are stupid or that they are less important than the laundry.
Eighth, I'm clay in your hands. Take responsibility for the way I turn out. You can't be perfect, but you need to try to be. You need to make me ready for the challenges I will face. If I "fall in with the wrong crowd" it will be mostly your fault for not preparing me to make better decisions. If I do drugs some day, your fault, too. I hate to lay that on you, but that's the deal. Think ahead and address these things with me. Prepare me. I can't do this stuff without you. But if you screw up, remember that everyone does. As long as you follow the above rules, we will always be close and we can get through any mistakes we make.
Ninth, remember that I don't want stuff nearly as much as I want time with you. Please don't take a job, no matter how much it pays, if it takes you away from me. An hour a day is simply not enough with you. I don't care about having to take out loans for college. I want hugs. Eventually, I'll want to have catches on the front lawn. I want story time. Starting on my birthday, I want naps on your warm chest. I can't feel your heartbeat if you are on business in Chicago, even through the wonders of video conferencing.
Maybe most importantly: stop in my room to watch me sleeping each night before bed. I know you will be really tired, but stop in for a minute and watch me sleep. You'll know why when you do it.
Oh, and while these things are coming to me -- I will be able to shoot vomit across a twenty foot room, despite my exceedingly diminutive stature. You should know that.
Alright, I'm pooped. Peace out.
Amazing! All of this from some kicks and punches. When interviewed, Mr. Cadwallader said only: "I am not changing diapers."
Alas.
Mrs. Cadwallader could not be reached for comment, as she had to pee really badly.
He has released a transcript of "kick-speak," as he calls it. The results are fascinating. Here is a message from the baby of Mr. and Mrs. Ted Cadwallader of Mont Alto, Pennsylvania, as transcribed by Dr. Von Schniggle, October 4th, 2010 :
Mom and dad -- it's me, your son. I know you are thinking of naming me Leo, but I would really prefer Gary -- but that is not the point. I need to fill you in on some stuff before it is too late. Some if/thens, really, that I know to be true about our relationship to come over the years. I know these things now, though I'm not sure why -- I'm getting messages wired in from somewhere. Sorry about the bladder-kicks, mom, but this needs to get through to you before I lose it.
First, you need to be patient with me. I know you know that, but what you don't know is that I will drive you to episodes of confusion and anger the likes of which you have never known. I will behave in completely irrational ways that will drive you to the limits of your endurance by keeping you awake to all hours of the night. You can't blame me, and you have to stay at the top of your game no matter how tired you are. I need you. Try to remember that.
Second, I really am sorry about the smells I will produce. I have no good excuse.
Third, you need to stick to your guns while you are raising me, no matter how hard I cry and whine. This is a test. I will test you. If you take my cookie away because you have warned me several times that this would be the consequence if I punched the dog in the nose again, I will cry to see if you love me enough to stand up to it. I will do this into my teenage years, except crying will turn into yelling. I will never really believe you love me if you let me get away with things for complaining.
Fourthly, stock up on Cheerios. They will be an excellent tool for behavior management, but you will find them around the house until you reach retirement age. I want to be up front with all of this.
Fifth, when I start talking to you, listen to me. No . . . stop nodding. Seriously: listen to me. Don't go all vacuous and wide-eyed and talk like a bad kindergarten teacher. Don't patronize me. Talk to me and listen to me. If you don't take me seriously, I won't take you seriously when I am a teenager. Fair's fair. Don't blame me for our communication problems if I have had to spend ten years being talked to like the village idiot.
Sixth, you will miss the diapers, so don't wish the time away. Dad -- I kid you not, my friend -- you will enjoy changing me if you give it a shot. You will find there is no feeling like watching your little guy walk away clean and comfortable, new diaper crackling around the room under a "onesy". So don't be a wuss. (Oh, and never refer to time spent with me as "babysitting". That will piss mom off.)
Seventh -- play with me. Don't worry about not knowing how. I'll show you how. If you play with me, I will be made as happy as I possibly can be made. I will be convinced you care about me and I will learn from you. And remember, when I get interested in things like video games and I talk about them in non-stop rolls that break Guinness records for time-span, remember to still listen. Each of my progressive interests will be the most important thing in my life at the time. Don't give me the feeling that those interests are stupid or that they are less important than the laundry.
Eighth, I'm clay in your hands. Take responsibility for the way I turn out. You can't be perfect, but you need to try to be. You need to make me ready for the challenges I will face. If I "fall in with the wrong crowd" it will be mostly your fault for not preparing me to make better decisions. If I do drugs some day, your fault, too. I hate to lay that on you, but that's the deal. Think ahead and address these things with me. Prepare me. I can't do this stuff without you. But if you screw up, remember that everyone does. As long as you follow the above rules, we will always be close and we can get through any mistakes we make.
Ninth, remember that I don't want stuff nearly as much as I want time with you. Please don't take a job, no matter how much it pays, if it takes you away from me. An hour a day is simply not enough with you. I don't care about having to take out loans for college. I want hugs. Eventually, I'll want to have catches on the front lawn. I want story time. Starting on my birthday, I want naps on your warm chest. I can't feel your heartbeat if you are on business in Chicago, even through the wonders of video conferencing.
Maybe most importantly: stop in my room to watch me sleeping each night before bed. I know you will be really tired, but stop in for a minute and watch me sleep. You'll know why when you do it.
Oh, and while these things are coming to me -- I will be able to shoot vomit across a twenty foot room, despite my exceedingly diminutive stature. You should know that.
Alright, I'm pooped. Peace out.
Amazing! All of this from some kicks and punches. When interviewed, Mr. Cadwallader said only: "I am not changing diapers."
Alas.
Mrs. Cadwallader could not be reached for comment, as she had to pee really badly.
Labels:
kids,
parenthood,
teens
Monday, October 11, 2010
Very American in a Good Way
A friend of mine now lives in Germany. We were in graduate school together in New Jersey in the nineties. Recently, she wrote about her boss in Germany who characterized her as "very American in a good way." His statement intrigued me.
I remember a skit by Rowan Atkinson. He was the "sign language" interpreter for the deaf in a comedic news report. (Sorry -- tried to find a video and failed.) During the newscast, the reporter referred to "the Americans" whom Atkinson -- an Englishman -- interpreted, in "sign language," as a man shoving an entire sandwich into his mouth in one attempt.
During George W. Bush's tenure as our fearless leader, the surveys seemed to represent an increasingly low opinion of our country where Europeans were concerned. I think things are improving under Mr. Obama. But the reality is, I always have felt Europeans sort of look at us like the bad kid in the class that you sometimes begrudgingly like; the one you respect for his commitment to being unique but who is a pain in the butt, nonetheless.
But what did the German guy mean? I have an idea, based on what I know of my friend, what he meant by his compliment to her. She's incredibly smart, quick-witted, self-reliant, completely original in everything from her thinking to her fashion sense and she's full of energy and passion for the things that interest her. I'd like to think that this is what he meant. I think that we as Americans value that stuff and aspire toward those qualities.
Why did he seem to need to make a distinction -- what would it mean to be American in a bad way? Well, it just so happens my friend is also very nice. If you substitute obnoxious for nice, I think you get the "bad way". So, give someone all of my friend's characteristics but make him obnoxious, and I think you get the European impression of most Americans. There's a hinge on every word: "smart" becomes "smart-assed"; "quick-witted" becomes "snarky"; "self-reliant" becomes "self-centered"; "original" becomes "uncooperative"; and "energetic" and "passionate" become "overbearing".
I have a fear that our good qualities come across to most of Europe as sort of "in your face". Maybe they don't really dislike us -- maybe they just don't like the amplified version they get of us, whether it is our fault or not.
WHADDAYOU THINK? Do any Americans out there have experiences with European impressions? Do any Europeans want to weigh in on their opinion of us Americans?
(HAT TIP: Lori )
I remember a skit by Rowan Atkinson. He was the "sign language" interpreter for the deaf in a comedic news report. (Sorry -- tried to find a video and failed.) During the newscast, the reporter referred to "the Americans" whom Atkinson -- an Englishman -- interpreted, in "sign language," as a man shoving an entire sandwich into his mouth in one attempt.
During George W. Bush's tenure as our fearless leader, the surveys seemed to represent an increasingly low opinion of our country where Europeans were concerned. I think things are improving under Mr. Obama. But the reality is, I always have felt Europeans sort of look at us like the bad kid in the class that you sometimes begrudgingly like; the one you respect for his commitment to being unique but who is a pain in the butt, nonetheless.
But what did the German guy mean? I have an idea, based on what I know of my friend, what he meant by his compliment to her. She's incredibly smart, quick-witted, self-reliant, completely original in everything from her thinking to her fashion sense and she's full of energy and passion for the things that interest her. I'd like to think that this is what he meant. I think that we as Americans value that stuff and aspire toward those qualities.
Why did he seem to need to make a distinction -- what would it mean to be American in a bad way? Well, it just so happens my friend is also very nice. If you substitute obnoxious for nice, I think you get the "bad way". So, give someone all of my friend's characteristics but make him obnoxious, and I think you get the European impression of most Americans. There's a hinge on every word: "smart" becomes "smart-assed"; "quick-witted" becomes "snarky"; "self-reliant" becomes "self-centered"; "original" becomes "uncooperative"; and "energetic" and "passionate" become "overbearing".
I have a fear that our good qualities come across to most of Europe as sort of "in your face". Maybe they don't really dislike us -- maybe they just don't like the amplified version they get of us, whether it is our fault or not.
WHADDAYOU THINK? Do any Americans out there have experiences with European impressions? Do any Europeans want to weigh in on their opinion of us Americans?
(HAT TIP: Lori )
Labels:
Americans
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