I came to London to gain experience as an intern in an environmental science company, but, given a few bumps along the way, I spent one of my first weeks working in a café at an urban farm in the heart of London. Not only did I get to flex my latte-making muscles and clean up after countless small children, I established relationships with a handful of lovely Brits. Below, I reflect on my experience sharing my own story, which transcends my label as “American:”
“Looks like your president is in trouble again,” the cook said to me as I piled dirty dishes into the rack, commenting on Trump’s abominable decision to remove the U.S. from the Paris Climate Agreement. Hailing from the Scottish Highlands, having come to London to live and work many years before, he—to my surprise—knows a lot more about America and current events than I sure do.
This is not the first time I’ve been asked my political position regarding some of our current president’s questionable actions and statements since arriving in London. While Trump and his antics are no doubt hot topics to the Brits with whom I interact, they see me first as an American, living directly under the power of the president and affected by his every decision, executive order, and tweet.
I’ve found that my Americanism comes up in other contexts besides politics, namely when I use American terms for objects like cutlery (to me, silverware), rubbish bags (trash bags), jacket potatoes (baked potatoes), and crisps (chips), among others. They kind of give me this funny look and cock their heads a bit at the misidentification. It takes about eight seconds for them to process what I’ve said, but only about two seconds for me to recognize that what I said wasn’t right. I bumble for the word that will set everything straight.
They are amused by these differences and are sure to bring it up multiple times. “Did you find your trash bags?” the same Scottish cook asks me. Yes, I managed alright. And yet, whenever I try to use the British term that I know to be correct, I can’t help but feel like a bit of an imposter—like some bloke from the states (the U.S.). I promise I’m not a poser, I’m just trying to communicate efficiently.
My accent, of course, gives me away immediately and makes me feel a bit out-of-place in my work environment. But I try to give my co-workers reason to look beyond my tag as American. “Where you from?” they’ll ask. Minnesota. When they give me that sideways head tilt again and furrow their brows, I say, “It’s in the middle near Canada.” But I am understanding because I would never expect them to know American geography—50 is a lot of states.
I work hard, take initiative, ask to help with other tasks and solve problems that arise. I share things about myself, my life and my family beyond where I’m rooted. I ask them questions, genuinely curious and appreciative of a chance to have open conversations with natives. These chinwags and chats have become both common and increasingly comfortable, eradicating my “single story”—their preconceived perceptions of me—as an American.
Because I am far more than American. I am a Minnesotan looking to get out of North America. I’m a hard-worker, a sister, a daughter, a girlfriend, a barista, a cook, a runner, a scientist, a writer, an environmentalist. Holistically viewed, I am not defined by my origins. Nor is anyone else. It is only through elimination of these labels and barriers that we can learn, communicate and enjoy one another.