An Innocent Abroad

By Julian Bubb-Humfryes | Monday, August 11, 2008

I suppose I should confess: I am a European and, in a continent packed to the rafters with wishy-washy liberals, I am proud to say I am one of the wishy-washiest. Quite why the sinister Board of Control that runs this esteemed right-wing organ should have let me contribute my no doubt inconsequential musings I do not know.

I digress however. I am a newcomer to the United States, and indeed to The World at large (Europe is not The Real World; it is a museum with a delicatessen counter). So, as such, here are my impressions of the US of A, of Dartmouth, and of the Americans in their native habitat.

The first thing that strikes one on arrival is the flags. In Britain at least, flags are regarded as something faintly embarrassing, a reminder of a nationalistic, imperial past that is regarded with feelings of deep ambiguity by most people. America, however is the imperial power par excellence of today, and the reminders are everywhere. Even as I look out of my window over the graveyard (dead handy, incidentally, if ever I succumb to delusions of my own immortality), I can see the Stars and Stripes perched proudly by one of the tombstones, no doubt belonging to some brave soldier of a former war.

This patriotism is a symptom of one of the best and the worst features of America’s national character – a thoroughgoing lack of cynicism. Britons are apt to squirm in embarrassment at the messianic earnestness of American politicians, but perhaps it’s us who’ve gone too far the other way? I could say that cynicism is the best defence against tyranny, but I just can’t bring myself to. It would simply be too American. I’m British and to me cynicism is good because earnestness is just embarrassing and silly, and these are qualities we are born acutely sensitive to, like a dog is to the smell of another dog’s arse. And therein, one might say, lies the difference between our two great nations, for those who care about such things. I don’t of course. I’m British.

It may just be that I arrived in America at a particularly patriotic season of the year. I have now seen 4th July as something more significant than simply the day before the fifth. I suppose I approached the whole event in a state of ambiguity. On the one hand, I think most people in the world at large and funnily enough, in Britain especially, would admit that the founding fathers were in the right. On the other hand, they did throw all our precious tea into the Boston harbour, which is frankly unforgivable.

America’s attitude to its founding fathers is another thing that is hard to fathom, for a European at least. American banknotes all seem to have pictures of presidents. Or, to put it another way, of politicians. There seems to be some sort of fetishisation of the Founding Fathers (and of politicians generally) that leads one to overlook their fallibility. I mean, I admire men like Jefferson in a way, but is it really right to honour a man who thought it was somehow acceptable to own other human beings simply because they were Negroes? I have since discovered that the housing I am living in is named after one Nathan Lord, President of Dartmouth 1828-63. Previously an abolitionist, he came to believe that slavery was a matter of divine providence punishing blacks for their sins. He was forced to resign during the Civil War after refusing to grant Abraham Lincoln an honorary degree—which does put all the current controversies into perspective somewhat. It may also be the reason why, in a college full of superb accommodation, Lord is still so dilapidated, bug-infested and generally foetid. For the sake of the College’s reputation and the health of its students, maybe someone would like to step in and finance a refurbishment and rechristening?

Please don’t think I mean to be uncharitable. America is a great country. The only great country in the world in fact (Britain lost any right to that epithet half a century ago). It’s the little things that are charming, though. Like the way people manage to do you a service without being either surly or servile. I’ve so far been able to fathom whether ‘Have a nice day’ is an order, existential advice, or merely a helpful hint, but people say it with such sincerity (and with a smile that is such a glowing tribute to American orthodontistry) that it is a pleasure to comply.

And there’s another thing: people here have a sense of right and wrong that’s got lost in a morass of irony on the other side of the Atlantic. They actually care about freedom and the like, and I find that impressive. Indeed, I am reliably informed that America has more freedom, not only per capita but also per square mile, than any other country in the developed world. This latter achievement is quite something when one considers the USA has a much lower population density than many other Western countries. There is not, however, the freedom for a young personage to consume alcohol (O tempora! O mores!). This, you can be sure, is the one freedom that European youth would fight to the death to defend. Either that or pay no attention and carry on anyway. Whichever requires least the effort, I suppose.

Dartmouth, too, is beautiful. From its verdant trees to its devilishly perplexing library, the design of which pays fulsome tribute to the drawings of M.C. Escher, there must be few better places in the world in which to spend four years of one’s youth. I do have one minor complaint, however. It was perhaps unfortunate that when the College came to choose its colour, the only one left should have been green. New Hampshire is quite green enough. (Indeed, coming from such a cramped corner of the world it was rather disconcerting to discover just how much green there is between towns.) One can readily understand the reasoning – what symbolizes Dartmouth better after all? It just gets a tad oppressive. The doors are green, the clothes are green, the roofs are green, the trees are green, the Green is green and so on ad nauseam. A minor quibble, however.

It has been a pleasure and a privilege to spend this summer at the College on the Hill, and if I return to my effete existence at Oxford with a tad more of the still North in my soul and the granite of New Hampshire in my brain, then I shall count myself a lucky man indeed.

An Innocent Abroad

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