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Rose

March 3rd, 2014

Are you American? Yes, but…

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Estimated reading time: 5 minutes

Rose

March 3rd, 2014

Are you American? Yes, but…

0 comments

Estimated reading time: 5 minutes

I have a bone to pick with the world, a bone connected to many of my most sensitive nerves, all of which hold a direct line of communication to my soul.

When I told my parents’ Tunisian friend that I was spending a year in London to study anthropology at LSE, he was baffled. He spoke to me in ‘dissappointed French’, without any of the fluffy feeling words that punctuate American and British English (nice, lovely, brilliant, amazing, great, fine), submitting me to the unforgiving directness of French syntax. I recognised his point, I was going to a country that speaks one of my tongues with a culture (if such a term can be ascribed to an entire nation…) quite similar to that within which I was raised. Half-way through our conversation, I was whisked away by my family to avoid an awkward encounter with some acquaintances, leaving me no time to defend myself. It’s been 10 months since that conversation took place and I finally have a response.

Image of early evening In London
Evening settles over London

Coming to London has made me acutely aware of the fact that I have an American accent and that people immediately read this as a unique identifier, one potent enough to box me into a series of reactions and questions: ‘Oh, so you’re American Rose? (Though there was one instance where some of my debating students asked me whether I was Canadian; I have to say, I was quite charmed by this mis-identification!) Oh and your surname must mean you’re Jewish? (No, well sort of, no my father is Jewish, but my mother is Roman Catholic, and I grew up in a non-religious household). Where in America are you from?’

To my British friends, words like ‘trash’ in place of ‘rubbish’ or ‘purchase’ instead of ‘buy’ are clear indicators of, and I quote, ‘just how American you are, Rose’. To my French friends and family, I am the bilingual American with bizarrely strong ties to France. To my American friends, I’m the socialist with alien values like never saying the Pledge of Allegiance, or I’m a fraud who denies her Bostonian/Cantabrigian roots and instead parades around in a mask of French identity.

And then there’s strangers: the other day I was renewing my American passport at the US Embassy in London. When I was called to the counter I was greeted by a woman who asked me in French to confirm that my father was indeed the French parent. I replied ‘comment’ ?!, taken aback by the fact that I was being addressed in French, as though I was a foreigner in the US Embassy and that my mother’s name, Frederique was misinterpreted as a man’s name. This time a state official decided that I wasn’t American enough to be spoken to in English.

And then there’s me and my identity. My whole life I’ve fought so hard to stake a legitimate claim to my French heritage; France is where I was born, France is where my parents met and where the seeds of my now expanded family were first planted. France is where I have memories hunting for oysters on the bay of Archachon with my cousins, siblings, parents, and grandparents, it’s where I fed a horse sugar cubes for the first and last time in my life, it’s where I found a love for my favorite drink, la menthe à l’eau. France is where I’ve witnessed my beloved grandmother descend into a spiral of alcholism. France is where I’ve witnessed reunions after years of estrangement and marvelous wedding celebrations, it is where I’ve spent some of my most joyous holidays. I’ve lived a part of my life there and its language and culture have followed me across the Atlantic by way of my French mother and Francophone father. So, when people ask me the coercive, slyly phrased question,  ‘so your American?’ the response will not be plain and simple; it will not be I am from Cambridge, Massachusetts. No, it will be a complicated, long-winded answer because that’s the answer that best explains how, who, and why I am the way I am.

Image of Rose Schutzberg
Just me

So, to respond to my parents’ Tunisian friend: It wasn’t until I came to London that I found myself facing the conundrum of defining myself in categorical terms; it’s here, on this island nation, that I have experienced being boxed into simplifications that don’t reflect the complicated rendition of human spirit that is Rose Lisa Schutzberg. After a long texting conversation with one of my best friends who faces similar multicultural dilemmas, we’ve painstakingly come to realise that we ‘are not really either, of one category or another, we are true hybrids’. This has been the value of studying in London.

So yes, to those who see inconsistencies in my behaviours and tendencies, who can’t make out my aesthetics or world-view, who are frustrated by my adoption/rejection of certain ideologies and practices: I feel you, this negotiation and contradiction is part and parcel to my daily life. Do not stifle me with your boxes, categories, and ideas about how I should be representing myself, this is my journey, not yours.

About the author

Rose

Bonjour! I was born in Paris, France and raised in Cambridge, MA, USA by a French mother and American father. Consequently, I am a dual citizen and fully bilingual. I study sociocultural anthropology at Columbia University in New York City, and have a special interest in medical anthropology. I am also pre-med; after earning my bachelor's degree, I will attend medical school and become a surgeon. At LSE, I study anthropology, English literature, and European history. As a city-slicker, a year in London is nothing short of ideal! My interests outside of scholarly pursuits include, dancing (ballet and modern), watching the world's dancers and choreographers pour out their souls on stage, long-distance running, creative writing, reading, film, socialized medicine, peer-mentoring, observing surgeons in the operating room, and volunteering in the Emergency departments of urban hospitals.

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