When I first spent some time living in Spain, I was a spunky sophomore at Winona State University. At a mere 19 years old, I left the good Midwest and ventured to Barcelona, where I would spend five months having my world view change completely.
I studied abroad with the only program I could find that would send American students to study in a real university setting. AKA, they wouldn't send you to Spain to take classes with American students and American professors in an American center, like 99.9% of programs. This place would send you, for a light $13,000, directly to the Universitat de Barcelona. The Council on International Educational Exchange (CIEE), it was called. This program was independent from my university, and so I went completely alone. I didn't know anyone, and that was the part I liked about it. My goal was to stray away from Americans if I could, and attempt to meet some local friends for what I thought would be an enlightening cultural experience as we were promised we would all have upon embarking on our semester-short adventure on the other side of the big pond.
My first but important change in worldview came via a group of Colorado-natives who, using a technique which I like to call lighthearted (yet damaging) bullying, made me fully aware that I had a ridiculous Minnesota accent. Every time I spoke they laughed at me, pointed a bit, and then made me repeat words they thought were funny. I couldn't hear my accent, but I was, suddenly, made fully aware it existed. When in group settings, I stopped talking altogether. But hey, whatever. It was honestly the best way for me to not get sucked into an America away from America experience abroad.
In my time in Barcelona I made the typical mistake. I didn't get to know Barcelona all too well. I started to travel and travel and travel, one weekend after another. France, Belgium, Scotland, Holland, and aaaaaaall over Spain. I pulled some of the weight all traveling Americans did at that time: the weight of President Bush. Regardless of how you may have felt personally about Bush, the rest of the world didn't like him very much, aaaand the rest of the world was usually ignorant enough to treat me like shit because of a president I didn't vote for. All the same, people would come to me, bash my country to my face, and I would usually agree with them.
Now, on top of the general anti-American sentiment in Europe at the time, I was super duper young and started to have all of these amazing revelations about my culture, country and lifestyle... They were intensely enlightening for me at the time, but all the same were insanely negative. Suddenly, my country seemed to be full of ignorant non-travelers whose eyes had never been opened to a world of street cafes and the ingenious invention that is walking... anyone who hadn't lived abroad just hadn't lived, goodness gracious!
The outcome upon my arrival home is what I like to call "Study Abroad Syndrome": or, I hate America and all it stands for. Patriotism is bad and next time I travel I might even say I'm Canadian.
All I could seem to spit outta my mouth was insinuating that Spain was way better than America. "In Spain, this, and this, and this..." and my friends and family, for the first five minutes of conversation, would respond with the affirming, "Wow, cool." But that didn't last for long. (Understandable.)
After those five minutes and for, maybe, another week, they started to directly ignore me. (Fair enough.)
Once that week or two passed, and I still insisted of Spain's superiority, I got the response of: "SHUT UP YOU'RE NOT IN SPAIN YOU'RE IN AMERICA!!" (More than fair enough.)
The next step in the process was being pissed at all my friends and family for not understanding me. The acceptance process went a bit like this in my head: Okay, Spain is better but if I want friends after tomorrow I have to wire my jaw shut to keep myself from telling everyone how ignorant they are for not having lived in Spain, or at least dreamed about it. Okay. Accepted. (And then I'd only talk about it drunk.)
This sentiment hung around... my obsession with my home away from home never faded like it did for some other fellow study-abroaders, and I ended up moving back to Spanish-speaking land the fall after graduation, in October 2009.
I studied abroad with the only program I could find that would send American students to study in a real university setting. AKA, they wouldn't send you to Spain to take classes with American students and American professors in an American center, like 99.9% of programs. This place would send you, for a light $13,000, directly to the Universitat de Barcelona. The Council on International Educational Exchange (CIEE), it was called. This program was independent from my university, and so I went completely alone. I didn't know anyone, and that was the part I liked about it. My goal was to stray away from Americans if I could, and attempt to meet some local friends for what I thought would be an enlightening cultural experience as we were promised we would all have upon embarking on our semester-short adventure on the other side of the big pond.
My first but important change in worldview came via a group of Colorado-natives who, using a technique which I like to call lighthearted (yet damaging) bullying, made me fully aware that I had a ridiculous Minnesota accent. Every time I spoke they laughed at me, pointed a bit, and then made me repeat words they thought were funny. I couldn't hear my accent, but I was, suddenly, made fully aware it existed. When in group settings, I stopped talking altogether. But hey, whatever. It was honestly the best way for me to not get sucked into an America away from America experience abroad.
In my time in Barcelona I made the typical mistake. I didn't get to know Barcelona all too well. I started to travel and travel and travel, one weekend after another. France, Belgium, Scotland, Holland, and aaaaaaall over Spain. I pulled some of the weight all traveling Americans did at that time: the weight of President Bush. Regardless of how you may have felt personally about Bush, the rest of the world didn't like him very much, aaaand the rest of the world was usually ignorant enough to treat me like shit because of a president I didn't vote for. All the same, people would come to me, bash my country to my face, and I would usually agree with them.
Now, on top of the general anti-American sentiment in Europe at the time, I was super duper young and started to have all of these amazing revelations about my culture, country and lifestyle... They were intensely enlightening for me at the time, but all the same were insanely negative. Suddenly, my country seemed to be full of ignorant non-travelers whose eyes had never been opened to a world of street cafes and the ingenious invention that is walking... anyone who hadn't lived abroad just hadn't lived, goodness gracious!
The outcome upon my arrival home is what I like to call "Study Abroad Syndrome": or, I hate America and all it stands for. Patriotism is bad and next time I travel I might even say I'm Canadian.
All I could seem to spit outta my mouth was insinuating that Spain was way better than America. "In Spain, this, and this, and this..." and my friends and family, for the first five minutes of conversation, would respond with the affirming, "Wow, cool." But that didn't last for long. (Understandable.)
After those five minutes and for, maybe, another week, they started to directly ignore me. (Fair enough.)
Once that week or two passed, and I still insisted of Spain's superiority, I got the response of: "SHUT UP YOU'RE NOT IN SPAIN YOU'RE IN AMERICA!!" (More than fair enough.)
The next step in the process was being pissed at all my friends and family for not understanding me. The acceptance process went a bit like this in my head: Okay, Spain is better but if I want friends after tomorrow I have to wire my jaw shut to keep myself from telling everyone how ignorant they are for not having lived in Spain, or at least dreamed about it. Okay. Accepted. (And then I'd only talk about it drunk.)
This sentiment hung around... my obsession with my home away from home never faded like it did for some other fellow study-abroaders, and I ended up moving back to Spanish-speaking land the fall after graduation, in October 2009.
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I landed in Spain's version of the deep south: Jaén. The land of olives and it's oil. The land of "I can't understand anything you're saying because your accent ruins my concept of the Spanish language." The land of tapas, drinking til 9am, and that's about it cause there was really nothing else to do.
This was my second move abroad alone. I, luckily, connected with another American girl, Holly, before leaving and met her there upon my arrival. We found an apartment together on the most beautiful pedestrian street in town, which we shared with a friendly Peruvian guy.
During my eight months working as an English teaching assistant, I was the owner of what would come to be known between my fellow Americans and I as "Spain face." Definition? I was smiling 24/7. The first few days, Holly would have to tell me to stop smiling as I walked down the street... Turns out I was embarrassing my friends as I bathed in my European bliss. I didn't care that I was kinda in the middle of nowhere, I was straight up happy to be there.
During my eight months working as an English teaching assistant, I was the owner of what would come to be known between my fellow Americans and I as "Spain face." Definition? I was smiling 24/7. The first few days, Holly would have to tell me to stop smiling as I walked down the street... Turns out I was embarrassing my friends as I bathed in my European bliss. I didn't care that I was kinda in the middle of nowhere, I was straight up happy to be there.
This time around I didn't care about diving into Spanish customs by ignoring fellow Americans in an attempt to be cultured or something. This time around, I learned that foreigners run in packs because, surprise, you have one thing in common: you're alone. And another thing: you're all crazy enough to move away alone in search of some kind of meaning in life, and so you all get along really, really well. And it's really, really fun.
Another thing happened. I was pretty darn sure I would never live in Spain again. Why? I didn't want to. Spanish people started to annoy me: they talk loud, they're rude, lazy and ignorant, they never want to leave their parents because they're all spoiled brats who live for free until they're 30... independence is of no importance, cheating on their significant other seemed to be the norm because they would rather suffer through a lifelong relationship that started when they were 15 than be alone... all I saw was negative. I loved the language, the nightlife, the lifestyle... but I started to really dislike the people! It was like I had suddenly overdosed on cultural experiences.
The other side of this? I started to glorify home. The variety of food. The people. Better yet, the polite people. The American dream. The mindset of working hard, being independent and self-reliable. The wide streets. Cars. Big cars! Green places. Quiet places. Houses! (How can you live in an apartment, anyway??) I finished my work contract, celebrated my birthday with an all-nighter, and flew home the next day. Shit, I practically ran home. I would have swam if you told me I had to.
My parents picked me up from the airport with a cooler full of Taco Bell (best welcome home gift ever!) and drove me home. As we cruised through Minneapolis and into Robbinsdale, I felt like I was passing through a surrealist film. I expected marvalous-ness. I spent eight months with such a desire for home filled with unrealistic wishes of life being perfection that I went through the strangest thing ever: reverse culture shock. Home didn't feel too homey anymore, or at least not like I remembered. I got bored after two weeks... and even started to miss Spain. I spent the summer keeping up with my Spanish by interpreting and decided that if no dream-job dropped into my plate (which of course it didn't) that I would wander off to Spain again. Not because I really wanted to, but just because I figured... why not?
My parents picked me up from the airport with a cooler full of Taco Bell (best welcome home gift ever!) and drove me home. As we cruised through Minneapolis and into Robbinsdale, I felt like I was passing through a surrealist film. I expected marvalous-ness. I spent eight months with such a desire for home filled with unrealistic wishes of life being perfection that I went through the strangest thing ever: reverse culture shock. Home didn't feel too homey anymore, or at least not like I remembered. I got bored after two weeks... and even started to miss Spain. I spent the summer keeping up with my Spanish by interpreting and decided that if no dream-job dropped into my plate (which of course it didn't) that I would wander off to Spain again. Not because I really wanted to, but just because I figured... why not?
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And so, move number three came along in October of 2010... I went alone again to work as an English teaching assistant, again. I showed up in Gijón, a rainy city on the northern coast, known as "La costa verde" (the Green Coast). I was lucky enough to be invited into the home of a Polish girl named Magda, who I contacted through couch surfing (for those of you who don't know, it's defined as: "A volunteer-based worldwide network connecting travelers with members of local communities, who offer free accommodation and/or advice"). The first day, her Italian friend and neighbor, Alberto, carried a suitcase or two of mine up four flights of stairs and offered me homemade pizza and a beer. I decided these people would be my future friends, and they were. Our international group of pals was pretty much an unofficial UN: Belgium, Poland, Italy, Germany, Spain and the US were all represented. I didn't spend much time with any Americans, which didn't worry me. Like I had learned before, foreigners run in packs... and I learned that it didn't matter what kind of foreigners. In the end we were all alone, all the same. And all we had was each other.
It was during this year when I finally leveled out my opinions about my country. I finally realized it wasn't paradise, but it also wasn't a shit hole full of ignorant hillbillies with superiority syndrome. Maybe it was due to being surrounded by so many different types of people and cultures, or maybe it was having two years of such extreme feelings- each from a polar opposite end- that brought me down to earth.
It may seem like a simple revelation, but it wasn't easy for me to come to. I realized every country has their good and bad, just like mine. The problem just happens to be that America is huge. Not only is it huge, but it's in the center of the world culturally and economically, not to mention militarily (I didn't think that word existed but spell check didn't jump me, so looks like it's good...). Everyone across the world watches our movies and listens to our music. They wear our brands and dream of traveling to our cities. They follow our presidential elections and political movements and choices. They criticize our health care system and our values. They tear us apart because it's easy. We're in the center... and therefore we're easy to pick on. I'm not suddenly on the other extreme of "America is the best," but I am currently in the happy middle. My country is great, and hey, yours is too. Sounds kinda like a Sesame Street episode or something... but that's how I see it now. (Now if only Big Bird would pop out from around the corner and give me a hug. He was always my favorite.)
It may seem like a simple revelation, but it wasn't easy for me to come to. I realized every country has their good and bad, just like mine. The problem just happens to be that America is huge. Not only is it huge, but it's in the center of the world culturally and economically, not to mention militarily (I didn't think that word existed but spell check didn't jump me, so looks like it's good...). Everyone across the world watches our movies and listens to our music. They wear our brands and dream of traveling to our cities. They follow our presidential elections and political movements and choices. They criticize our health care system and our values. They tear us apart because it's easy. We're in the center... and therefore we're easy to pick on. I'm not suddenly on the other extreme of "America is the best," but I am currently in the happy middle. My country is great, and hey, yours is too. Sounds kinda like a Sesame Street episode or something... but that's how I see it now. (Now if only Big Bird would pop out from around the corner and give me a hug. He was always my favorite.)
I also came to the conclusion that ignorance spans the globe. Whether European, Asian, American, whatever- there are dumb people everywhere. I spent last year defending my country and my culture for the first time in my life. I began to note that the majority of people dissing on my country had never been to my country, and all of their conclusions were taken from MTV or late-night talk shows who make fun of dumb people in general (which just happened to be filmed in America). What they don't realize is, if they did that here, you'd find people who don't know how to locate Mexico on a map, too.
My favorite drunken phrase random people say to me here is: "You're all dumb and ignorant!! Look at your people on MTV!!" My response? "If you think MTV represents all the people in my country, you're the ignorant one."
My favorite drunken phrase random people say to me here is: "You're all dumb and ignorant!! Look at your people on MTV!!" My response? "If you think MTV represents all the people in my country, you're the ignorant one."
"And most American people think Spain is next to Mexico!!"
My response? "Have you met any Americans who don't know where Spain is?"
Theirs? "No... but on TV..!!!"
Mine? "Maybe Spain hasn't done anything important enough in recent years for us to have to know where Spain is."
That's always a good way to get an argument going...
Anyway, in the end, after a few years of living here, I've realized that simply enough, one is not better than the other, it's just different. And compared to before, where I would have held up a Canadian flag to hide the fact that I was American, now I'm proud. I'm simply proud. My country is pretty damn great. And to answer my own question, yes, I am proud to be an American. (Finally.) And it feels good.
That's all for now, folks.
That's all for now, folks.
