My Mumbling Thoughts

My darling Trish has gone back to VA for the summer, and is realizing that no, sometimes you just can't go back home. Her mother is constantly on her case about things and her brother irritates her non-stop.

It's hard to adjust being back under the parental's roof when you've been gone for so long.

I was talking to her online last night, and trying to remind her that she should enjoy being back home and take advantage of the time that she has now with her family. Yes, it can be annoying when your mom treats you like you're still 14-years-old, and if you have to pull your brother's finger out of your ear one more time because he has given you another wet willy, you might actually scream. It's okay. We don't really realize it, but even though we say it's annoying and we could tear our hair out in frustration, somehow we find comfort in all of those things that drive us insane. It wouldn't really be home if it was any different.

It got me to thinking about when I go back home, though, and how I do find it hard to adjust back to American Life. When you've been out on your own and managing alone every day for so long, in a different country no less, sometimes it can be really difficult to fall back into home life. When I was alone in the townhouse last summer, I would scour the pantry and wonder where the Ribena was, or Nice biscuits. And for fuck's sake, why didn't have any yorkshire puddings with our dinner? Is that too much for a simple girl to ask for? Really?

Momma and Mel would always give me hell whenever I'd say things differently or my accent would slip a little and I'd blurt something out sounding like a right chav.

"That doesn't make any sense, Sammi. Shut up. You're in America now," is what Mel liked saying to me.

Yeah, I was back in America indeed, and while I was glad to be amongst all of the tasty and familar fast food joints that I occasionally have dreams about, I couldn't help but notice all of the obvious changes in myself. I may have been back on American soil, but my heart still lived in London, still walked around the city streets with my iPod blasting UK bands in my ears that sing about the queen and Kings Cross station.

I noticed that I started to find American accents annoying as well. If I don't already know you and you're American, chances are I probably hate your accent. I went to the American embassy in Central with Trish one day so she could replace her passport, and while I was sat in the waiting area without my iPod, I had no other choice but to listen to all of the other Americans in the room waiting for their ticket number to be called. They just sounded so...American that it killed me. God, why were they here? Why were they speaking? Why do their voices sound like that? Jesus, did I used to sound like that?

Yes. Yes I did. And it makes me cringe to think that I used to sound like that.

The more I listened, the more I squirmed in my chair. Little American kids were running around and screaming, and their parents just sat there in their Old Navy t-shirt with the American flag plastered on it, wearing their birkenstocks and didn't do anything to control their demon that was running amok.

No wonder the rest of the world can't stand us. We're awful. I know not every single American is like the stereotypical bible thumping fat ass, but at the same time, there's a reason why it's a stereotype. We can be so blatantly ignorant, rude and inconsiderate of other people, that it's embarrassing for me sometimes to go out and say, "yeah, I'm American."

There was a boy in my Process of Writing lecture last term who was from Colorado. Every Tuesday at ten o'clock in the morning, it took every ounce of energy I had to not jump across the table and choke him. Alex and I would whisper to each other about 'fucking Americans' and how 'they needed to go back to their fucking country.' He sat there on his all-mighty pedastal and had to announce, or point out in some kind of way that hey! I'm American! We do things differently!

I wanted to say to him, yo, jackass. I'm American too, and is there really a need for you to wave our goddamned flag around every. cunting. class. Shut up. Nobody cares.

He was a fucking suck up that acted like he knew everything there is to know about anything, and if he had crawled up any further up the lecturer's ass, she could have spit him out through her mouth and onto the table on top of all of our literature books. It made me sink so low in my chair and want to apologize to everyone in the class. I wanted to explain, hey, we're not all like this. Some of us know when to keep our mouths shut. And others, like Mr. Colorado over there never learned how to keep quiet.

It's a lot of little things about the Americans that I encounter over here that really get on my tits; the fact that they think everyone is 'British'. No, dear. English. They're English. Because we're in England. It's along the same lines if someone thought you were Canadian.

Or how the tourists make a HUGE DEAL about everything. Have they never left their house?

Oh my god! Look at it! Just look. at. it. That's AWESOME. SO. FUCKING. AWESOME.

Chill out dude. You're going to give yourself a stroke.

I can't really say much, because I know that was me not even four years ago when I came to visit Ash. I squealed, my eyes got twice their size and there I was jumping up and down with my disposable camera and wearing a British flag jacket (hells yeah; it sits in my closet back in VA. There's no way in hell I'd be caught with it over here). Now, though, now that I live here and am completely immersed in my life here, when I see a fellow American doing the tourist thing, I can't help but do one of two things: 1) smile and remember when that used to be me, or 2) point and laugh because that tourist hat they've bought looks stupid.

It's not that I hate America now or am ashamed of where I came from. I will argue with people over here that want to start on me just because I'm American and give me grief about our president and blah, blah, blah. I always tell them to fuck off, and you don't see me talking shit about your queen and the royal family, so how about you close your trap about my president and its government? I can't fucking help that shit so don't blab on about it in my ear when I could fucking care less. America is an amazing country, and every place has its faults: like how I will never understand why I can't ever get a drink over here with ice in it. Try to do it. I dare you. It's fucking hard.

Perhaps a little part of me does consider myself to be slightly superior now, though, since I moved over here. I won't lie. I'm glad I'm not still stuck in my aunt's trailer living in Dallas, North Carolina anymore. I've come far since then, and I'm fucking proud to say that I've done better for myself and have managed to see things and learn about things that a lot of people in my family could never even imagine. I'm sure that they're living perfectly happy lives in their small town, but I've always thought that it wouldn't hurt to explore a little bit more, and learn a little bit more about others in the world. I just think that us Americans need to tone it down a little, and be more open-minded about people who aren't from our huge country. Believe it or not, not everywhere in the world has air conditioning. Sometimes all you have to do is open a window.

I do think I'm a strange hybrid of cultures all rolled into one: I'm American, and southern American at that. I'm half Filipino (thank you, daddy), plus now that I live in London, I've incorporated many English things in my life. With the 4th of July looming right around the corner, it's funny to think about celebrating the holiday over here instead of at home watching the fireworks inside from a safe distance away from all of the mosquitoes. I don't see why I shouldn't; Trish and I celebrate Thanksgiving over here. But at the same time, I don't think I really care about it too much. Yeah, we declared our independence from Great Britain, but I've come back to the Mother Country and feel more like myself here, than I ever did stuck working for the U.S. government in a dead end 9-5 job. I might just throw some burgers on the George, light a couple of sparklers and call it a night.