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Three of The Yorker's blogs team have had a hard think about what general rules they live their lives by and written them down in the form of their own Personal Philosophies.
I am American.
Everyone has their preconceived notions of the US and the most common questions I have been asked involve a mixture of Sarah Palin, Mickey Mouse, rifles, and Mean Girls. It took a few days to establish myself as the ‘average’ American. I do not eat hamburgers everyday, drive a truck, nor do I own guns to shoot things from that truck.
Even though English is one of the common threads my first few days were spent asking people to repeat what they were saying, along with making a mental British English to American dictionary (bin-trash can, toilet- bathroom, etc). For the first week my mind was racing with the excitement of being in a new place mixed with the fear of not finding my niche, culture shock, and the usual symptoms of being out of your own specific comfort zone.
Being an American has forced to be more aware of how I present myself, and in that respect my country.
Due to our horrific choice of a president (which thankfully will change in a few days) and how we are presented as a country, I have found being from the States a burden rather than something to be proud of. As a foreigner, your home country turns into your defining characteristic, something that I hope wears off after a few more weeks. Even though I have only been here a month it has been the most enriching experience of my life. If I were to return to my hometown of Washington D.C. today it would be as a different person.
The US has a wide range of people from all over the world, but often Americans are presented with a one-sided view of the world: a view that shows America as the most prestigious and greatest country in the world. Being outside of that is refreshing and I am enjoying everyday in York, the most charming city I have ever been in.
One thing I learnt from my exchange to Canada was that you can get away with pretty much anything for having an English accent.
Over there my slightly Brummie tones seemed to invoke ideas of quaint English life where we all drink tea, and Mr Darcy regularly rides by to sweep a woman off her feet. Obviously I’m exaggerating for dramatic effect, but not too much. It’s useful to have a phrase to hand when people overhear you order a coffee, and cry, “I love your accent! Say something!” They look at you in eager anticipation, as all sensible words drain from your vocabulary. I invariably fell back on the shamefully stereotypical, “Cup of tea”. But this seemed to satisfy most people.
While I came to terms with this, there was one Canadian phenomenon that I still find utterly bizarre: milk in bags. Yes, that’s right. Trying to explain how wrong this is doesn’t get you anywhere, even with an English accent. Hence this conversation I had with a friend:
Max: “Why is it weird?” Me: “Because it’s a liquid. It’s like having water in a bag.” Max: “No, that would be weird.”
Fortunately it made trips to the supermarket endlessly entertaining, as I ran towards the fridges to poke the bags of milk.
Unfortunately I didn’t see any bears or moose, but I ate bison, managed to see whales off the West coast and put my toes in the red sands of Prince Edward Island on the East coast. I now know all of the nine provinces and three territories, can survive six months of endless snow, and even saw Mike Myers at an ice hockey game!
But don’t ask me to buy you milk in a bag. I’m not that Canadian yet.
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