The following scene never changed, regardless of the national borders that encased my buffoonery.
A cashier rings up my items, and I make note of the total. The weird symbol (€, ¥, £) at the beginning of the amount would vary but that shouldn’t matter. Numbers are universal. This is not rocket science.
Yet, looking at the unusual coins in my hands, ones with random hues, shapes and some missing actual numbers, I was lost. I may as well have been looking at soy nuts and paper clips. The cashier studies me and helpfully repeats the total in her native tongue, assuming I hadn’t heard her. I smile my witless smile and shoot a glance to the murmuring line of people behind me. I knew there was no way to fake my way out of this, that any combination of dinero that I handed her would only confirm my stupidity. I held out all my money as if to say Please rob me, and she plucked out the requisite coinage. She was laughing.
Apparently, she’s seen this before. Apparently, idiocy is universal as well.
…
I’m pretty ashamed to admit that, at 34 years old, I’d never been to a country that was wholly foreign to me, where I knew very little about the language or culture. Alabama was as foreign as I’ve ever been–and in the average lifetime, that place should be plenty. Maybe I shouldn’t be ashamed about my inexperience. I know plenty of people who only traveled overseas in their later years or who’ve never even been out of their state. I’d been overseas before I knew how to tie my shoes. But Latin America doesn’t quite count for someone who is fluent in Spanish and grew up with Peruvian gastronomy. It’s like going to Denny’s instead of IHOP.
Travel has transformative effects. To gain penetrating insights about myself, ones akin to a few years of psychotherapy, I would need to bumble my way through an alien environment. I only wish the “divide” between that world out there and our swaddled American existence wasn’t so damn huge. Sure, online debates rage on as to whether there really is a divide. We’re all human beings with similar core needs; we’re all actors in the same play. But when it comes down to education, or just an awareness, of what lies beyond our nationalistic contrivances, things suck.
I’ve never made such a fool of myself as I did in Tokyo. Ignorance is a second cousin to arrogance, and both are death to the U.S. image. My vocabulary consisted of exactly 5 words, 3 of which were kawasaki, isuzu, and mitsubishi. The food, with its pungent fish-in-a-garbage-can smell, terrified me. The Japanese characters looked like angry monsters to me. I spent most of my time bowing and slinking away in embarrassment. My time in Germany wasn’t much better.
Could all this have been avoided if I’d traveled more? Not necessarily. A Suri-Cruise childhood isn’t absolutely imperative to have a deep appreciation of other cultures (though it doesn’t hurt). But an increased exposure to international matters is necessary, in my opinion. I’d like to think I keep pretty good tabs on such matters – I listen to NPR, I read BBC news. But now I realize I’m not even close.
For starters, the deficiency is huge when it comes to our music knowledge. Other countries have no problem with English-speaking artists racing up their countdowns or selling out their venues. But when was the last time you saw an international artist even peep out a note on our music charts? Even when they do, it’s via some crossover hit (Shakira) and not in their native tongue. Nothing irks me more than this resistance to international music. No matter the genre – whether it’s Egyptian pop or Russian punk – there is amazing music out there rife with global histories and cultures. Why shut it out? As I’ve said before, I’ll take Souad Massi over Madonna any day of the year.
Then there’s the language. While I was deciphering the German and Japanese jargon overseas, I began to wonder how foreigners react when they travel to the U.S. My initial conclusions were pity and a newfound respect for people who can battle the caprices of the English language. For me, there is nothing more vulnerable and helpless than being unable to express yourself. I’m so sorry I stepped on your cat. Or No, thank you, I don’t need bidet assistance. Or Please call a doctor because I’m choking on seaweed. If you take away my words, and my gestures resemble baseball signals, then all I have left are the fetal position and tears.
But then I realized that even in these faraway places, there are still English words on subway ads and key international signs. Which means that, even if the general populace doesn’t fluently speak English, they’ve still seen our writing system–and see it on a daily basis. That’s a far cry from here. How often on a daily basis do you see Chinese characters or the Cyrillic alphabet?
The TV stations abroad range from the local fare to the international, which puts our own broadcasting choices to shame. In Frankfurt, I had my pick from news and entertainment in English, German, Spanish, Portuguese, French, Russian, Italian, Arabic and another one that I never quite figured out. It’s no secret that the rest of the world watches the news of the rest of the world. I wonder if such an idea scares our networks. There’d be less airtime for Kim Kardashian, I guess.
It’s also no secret that most nations make a second language mandatory in school. This is huge in my book. I’ve had to play translator to plenty of lost travelers in airports simply because American Airlines and Delta didn’t have bilingual representatives available in big hubs like BWI and ATL. For Spanish. Frankly, escorting intimidated grandmas to their gates is not something I want to keep doing. They should never go through that stress.
I wish the global culture PR campaign more widespread here. It’s an amazing world out there, when politics isn’t screwing it up.
…
At my college graduation, my son peppered me with questions about the meaning of the event. I took this as a parental teaching moment to emphasize the importance of an education. It’s a responsibility as a global citizen, I told him. He thought for a second. Then he asked me what the flag of Botswana looked like. Apparently, his 3rd-grade class was in the process of learning all the flags of Africa since they already learned all its nations and capitals.
I paused. Fuck. Where the hell is Botswana? Near Uganda? How do you spell it? I ‘fessed up my shortcoming, and he looked bewildered.
“But I thought you were a college graduate now, Mommy?”
Ouch.
Education and exposure. More of it, please.
A flag I'll never forget...
