Don't quote me

Originally drafted November 16^th

I've had a lot on my mind lately, and I'm going to try to make sense of it for me and for you. Perhaps it’s too much for a single blog post, but I don’t know what else to do with it all. Having a public to which I can broadcast these thoughts makes it easier, I feel. It’s also an invitation for you to consider these thoughts and respond to them. 

            Last night at the soiree thrown by my host brother, Bruno, I found myself amid a conversation that roused the foundations of my patriotism and my perspective on this extended international field trip of mine.

            The topic of the conversation was at first naïve: recent films. Evidently, the French are much more critical of film than Americans, and thoughtful, I should add. Film is not entertainment to them, but art directly coupled with society, and so they are quite often opinionated. These discussions become animated, personal, and sometimes fiery. The French will acknowledge that their film industry is crap, and they talk almost exclusively about American film (television as well), with the occasional British film thrown in the mix. 

            Anyways, film led to the American election, a popular topic of discussion in France, where 80 percent of the population would have voted for Obama if given the chance. Up until then every French person detecting my accent had talked my ear off about the election, so I wasn’t thrilled to hear any more of the same constrained enthusiasm.

            Now let me just say that the conversation was in French, and though I understand it very well, that is not say that I understand every nuance and turn of the conversation. I find myself in this situation often, and though being unable to understand fully and respond with confidence can be uncomfortable, I am rewarded with a revelation.

            So - I'm not French, and this is where it gets blurry. I sensed that the man dominating the conversation, a nice, bright fellow, was holding his tongue a bit in front of me, the American. What is sure is that he was bitter about losing his job in New York, though he still held the country in high regard. One of his observations of America really stunned me, and I exited the conversation at the next opportunity. He said that America's culture is seen through its television networks, but that the real way to understand a foreign culture is through international exchanges (like mine).

            This got me thinking about a number of things: America my homeland, my charge here as an American, and America's lack of any real culture outside its unstoppable entertainment industry. I had only just begun to toy with the idea of considering myself an attaché from the USA. As one the dozen or so proficient French speakers in my program of 90 students, I’m beginning to realize that I am one of the American "elite", though I do not say it out of snobbism. From the start I have been well raised and exceptionally educated, by American standards, so really, it’s up to those of us who have been so privileged to put these talents to work. Still, the idea of being ambassador of American culture hadn't occurred to me.

            With the help of my few French contacts, I have begun to evaluate the American world presence, and by that I mean dominance, in the world. Paris is easily one of the most Americanized capitals of any nation on Earth. Any English speaking American idiot can come to Paris, get by, get around, and see the sights without breaking a sweat. Now I'm beginning to sound bitter! English is everywhere in Paris, I hardly go a day without hearing it spoken in the streets, the metro, or seeing it on billboards. 

            Last night's conversation isn't my only reference. Friday night I attended my first real French party; a friend from the Sorbonne invited me. I have made several acquaintances at the Sorbonne, but none quite so welcoming, accommodating, or genuine as Pauline. As it was a house party, I found the whole affair very 'high school', only the venue was an exquisite flat decked out with beautifully framed photographs and paintings. My français familier, or slang French, is pretty good, and I found I could hold my own among youth of my age at the party. I served as a kind of attraction, the foreign infiltrator; the guests were quite interested to meet me and talk to me. For a moment I felt like Prince William or Harry, with all the pretty girls taking interest! 

            When it came time for dancing, I was shocked to hear SO much American music played. After three or four songs, I assumed they were humoring me, that it was all a joke. They played the Rolling Stones, Chuck Berry, Elvis Presley, The Strokes; it was bizarre. When I asked Pauline about it, she smiled and said that American music had invaded France, at which I took some offense. The American music industry easily dwarfs any other in the world, so it is only natural that American music should make up the majority of any contemporary playlist.

            And yet it’s all for profit. As the Frenchman suggested last night, American culture of the 21^st century has been largely channeled in media; its television, its music, its film, its art, its fashion, all of which we have directly exported. I am partially sympathetic to this concept. Ours is a history steeped in capitalism and immersed in commercialism - a society in which everything is directed towards profits. Tobacco farming in Virginia and cod fishing in New England are origins I am proud of. However, I am experiencing the soulless wave of American influence on the rest of the world.

 

I feel lost in my nations liquid culture, a culture converted to capital. It’s a cycle in which every morsel of creative development is maturely picked from its source, processed, labeled, blindingly advertised, and sold back to us. While the same thing is happening in other countries, France included, the concept is an American contrivance, and frankly, we do it best. I distinctly remember the summer of 2007, my first real exposure to New York City and living independently in a metropolitan center, where for a time I suffered a, ‘cool crisis’. I found myself with no idol or role model in the middle of the world’s leading source of innovation. What I saw on the streets was the reflection of shop windows filled with kitsch. Virtually everything in that city is a short metro ride from its source. It frightened me to see how fleeting originality had become. So why even try? For this reason, my generation has had its wings clipped and can no longer fly, contrary to the nature of youth. Youth movement is no longer part of the vocabulary of young America. We sport keffiyehs, originally worn to show solidarity with the Palestinians, not because they’re a charged symbol, but because it’s cool to be politically active and motivated. We eat Chipotle excessively because they did it first on The Real World. I browse websites and see links to the ‘Culture Store’. The wealthy seek to mimic the lives of the working class, riding the same fixed gear track bikes as savvy bike messengers. What is there to rebel against that hasn’t already been parodied? If a culture exists in my generation, then it is terribly misguided and confused. And it’s currently for sale to the highest bidder.

So there’s the responsibility I bear representing these United States of America. The three statues of George Washington I’ve located in the city prove to be comforting in this regard. Could they have been installed to remind Americans like me of our pure founding vision? The great role played by America in history ever since the Second World War of leading every other developed nation shaped the modern world we know. Before then it was the same story, only less pronounced, time marked by innovations such as the discovery of electricity, the inventions of the telegraph machine and later the first gasoline powered automobile, America’s crucial role in the Great War, the construction of the Empire State Building, and the birth of Jazz.

Since the terrorist attacks of September 11^th, 2001, America’s superiority has been undermined, becoming even more obscured with the Wars in Afghanistan and Iraq, the disaster of Hurricane Katrina, and most recently, the financial crisis and its ripple effect on the economies of the world. To put it simply, the balance in world powers has been tipped. We have arrived at a crucial moment in the 21^st century where the world powers of the future will be soon decided. For these and other reasons, I have been hesitant to wear my nationality on my sleeve. I feel no need to attract more attention to a nation that is already the chief focus of the world.

Arriving at this point, I am heartened to report on France’s support of Barack Obama in the presidential election. The morning of November 5^th, when the election results were released, the 18^th arrondissement, one of the city’s ethnic melting pots, erupted in celebration. That same morning I saw my French classmates openly wearing Obama t-shirts, defying their stylistic mores for the sake of their political support of America’s electorate. Though they may be hesitant, the French of my generation have sided with the new Obama administration, and they are looking to America to resume leadership of the world. Though I’m not home in the US to take part in this new sensation, I feel its effects resounding across the Atlantic in the European continent. This event has struck France more than any chart-topping song of the past decade, the next great feat to mark the evolution of the world, with America at the wheel.

 

Cultural attaché from the US I am not, but I realize the image I embody of America is real. It’s not what I came here to do, but it is my charge. I came to immerse myself in French culture, while other Americans in my program have chosen to play the part of tourists. Perhaps I'm approaching the matter too seriously. Still, it’s my responsibility to make the experience an exchange, a give and take with benefits for both parties. After more than two months with the Vandames, it’s quite evident that they are a family with strong roots in French soil and even stronger morals as a Catholic family.

            It would have been much easier to spend my junior year in Gambier, Ohio. I might be hitting the books harder, but every aspect of my life would be the same as the two years prior. My raison d’être is clearer, though it is more convoluted and personal than I had originally expected. I’m in good hands with the French, though I always know where home is.