Americanista

"I am astonished and disheartened by the very subjective view of the world that most people have, whereby they reduce everything to their own personal concerns and involvements. But perhaps, once again, that's particularly American." - Susan Sontag

Americans abroad don't have a stellar reputation. I don't mean to generalize, for status depends on the person, the place and the political climate, but no matter where I go I feel a slight hesitancy when I'm asked the proverbial where are you from question. I am always afraid of how I will be perceived by others simply because I am American, to the point where I don't like to talk for fear of people pinpointing my accent(Although I realize I just sound like a foreigner to most people). When Obama was elected, many people said they felt proud to be American for the first time in years, but a promising new president doesn't exonerate the U.S. from its shameful past.

An American friend of mine once got in a bar fight (I kid you not) with a contentious Canadian who was detailing how all of the world's problems were caused by the United States. It was not his assessment, but the targeted way in which the information was directed at my American friend that I found incendiary; he seemed to want us to acknowledge our personal complicity in global crises. This incident made me more than cautious: perhaps there were many others, who, if given the opportunity, would readily engage in a session of America bashing, and by extension, dislike me. Back home, I might not hesitate to join in, but abroad (although the facts are still the facts anywhere in the world) it carries a certain sting. My country most definitely has its problems, but its still mine.

It has simply become a given that people will not hesitate to highlight the wrongdoings of the U.S., and the dire consequences for the rest of the world.
My students are often quick to point out the underlying imperialism behind America's most every action, and generally, I am quick to affirm their perspective. I have never been afraid to criticize my country, in fact, I'd always thought that citizen dissent was part of a healthy democracy. Yet I am also quick to think of the converse when the criticism gets intense: if American is so bad, then why did you just apply to American universities? You wouldn't be trying to sneak a glimpse at your iphone if it weren't for an American. I would never say these things, but I also wouldn't have the gall to insult their country in the same pointed way. Lauding or affirmation of my country (or merely stating the facts)is pride that could be misinterpreted as hubris.

There are many things that define an American abroad, most notably a sense of entitlement. While the "I want what I want when I want it" attitude is largely a stereotype, as with any assumption, it only takes a few individuals to reaffirm a falsely held belief applies to all. While I don't see this trait in all Americans, it is the assumption that things should go according to plan, and when they don't you have every right to huff and puff, to raise your voice and say "I'm never coming here again" that seems most prevalent. This mentality doesn't fly in a country where there is no concept of customer service, making this attitude of entitlement all the more outrageous.


In fact, I am so fearful of being guilty by association (a pompous, ignorant American), that I often do not complain, even when I had the right to do so. I am constantly fearful of stepping on people's toes, of inadvertently being culturally insensitive. I am careful not to talk too much, laugh too loud, be too demanding or too pushy. I don't think I have ever been this way, and yet this is often what I believe others are perceiving me as. I feel I must go to great lengths to prove myself otherwise, because, after all, it is my country that maintains (dwindling) global dominance.

Perhaps it has to do with coming of age in a time when America's politics were not merely subtly corrupt, but outwardly deplorable. Maybe its more a result of being inculcated in an academic environment where I learned everything was problematic, where even traveling and tourism were question and personal cultural imperialism.

I cannot count the times I've been told that I don't look American, or I don't seem American, or even sound American (because my English is so "clear?") and now, more than ever, I am very ready to assert that yes, I am American. It is more a matter of fact than a matter of pride. Yet I am always careful, for fear that an assertion that sounds too strong, too adamant, too proud, will automatically put me in alignment with all that is considered negative about my country.

I recognize that these feelings are grounded in paranoia, not reality. Perhaps I am overly sensitive or have a tendency to personalize everything, or perhaps, like many people all over the world, the trait that makes you different becomes the trait that defines you.

Kurban Bayram

I don't know how long it takes to kill a sheep. Nor do I know precisely how one goes about doing so. I've never heard the sounds sheep make while dying, and I can't even imagine the process of turning a furry animal into the various lamb shanks, chops and doner kebaps of the world. I figure its just a quick slit of the throat, but I really don't like to figure such things.

My trip along the Aegean to Efes and environs was one I knew I had to do before leaving Turkey. I didn't plan on going during Kurban Bayram (literally, Sacrifice Holiday) but it simply worked out that way.

Here is the Turkey I don't experience in Istanbul,as the charm wears off it feels just like Another Large Metropolitian City and simply becomes another place defined by traffic, crowds and multi-national chains on every corner.

In Selçuk, just a short drive south of Izmir and an hour's flight from Istanbul, sheep dominated the landscape. It was not just the sight but the smell. Countless sheep coralled into makeshfit holding areas along the roadsides. A boy no older than my students smoking and half-heartedly watching a half dozen sheep grazing in an empty lot. A rickety pick-up truck jam packed with sheep lumbered in front of us. Their heads bent low, I thought I saw a few lift their eyes towards me and stare longingly like...um, like sheep on their way to the slaughter.

I asked my students about the holiday, and they rolled their eyes in that 'oh of course we are not that provincial and if we are we won't admit it' way. Not everyone feels it their duty to slaughter, and you don't have to get blood on your hands to reap the benefits of the ritual slaughter. I learned that you can contribute to a Mosque and have a sheep slaughtered on your behalf. I feared waking to the bleeting of dying sheep, but even so, the whole thing it seemed surprisingly moral.

On the whole, I managed to avoid the watching the life eek out of a sheep thing. Only a few peripheral sightings: On our walk through a quaint neighborhood to the Seven Sleepers, I turned my head to the left and looked through a narrow opening into a courtyard, where a bloodied sheep hung upside down. I instinctively turned my head before I could really be sure I saw what I know I saw. What I thought was polluted water turned out to be a stream of dark blood running to a sewer. A man tossing grocery bags of what appeared to be garbage into the back of a truck, but were in fact plastic bags filled to the brim with bloodied sheep's wool spilling out through the handles like so much cotton used for fake Christmas snow. My brain wasn't trained to register such images. I kept turning them into something else. These snapshots of slaughter are scattered between shopping, driving down beatiful highways into picturesque sunsets, basking in the sun at the temple of Apollo and drinking wine by the fire. Here was proof that the slaughter had happened, but I had been busy on some other planet at the time, drinking wine and talking about my problems.

As I walked through ancient ruins, first Greek and then Roman, I thought we are no better or worse today than ages ago; as legend has it bacchanalia festivals often rose to a fever pitched frenzy that resulted in human sacrifice. The idea of sacrifice hasn't gone away in the west, just the blood associated with it. I didn't find it inhumane. Maybe if I'd known one sheep personally I would, but its hard to grasp the proportions of mass slaughter. The saddest I've ever been over the death of a farm animal was years ago, when I read Charlottes's Web.

The day after, there were still plenty of sheep roaming free. You've made it, guys! Another year written in the book of life.

In a way I like Kurban Bayram because it is visible; and to that extend I feel a part of it (if only watching from the wings) in a place where so much occurs behind closed doors in a language I cannot totally understand.