I wouldn’t consider myself patriotic, especially in comparison to my FACT (Foreign Affairs Counter-Terrorism) course classmates who had volunteered to go to Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and Yemen. As merely the spouse of a consular officer in Mexico and completely a cynic of U.S. operations in the Mideast, I felt a bit undeserving of taking the same weeklong training. After all, I got a free hotel stay in the Midwest while I spent days ramming cars and shooting guns. But I also got to feel blissfully detached in lectures about IEDs while I contemplated whether I support the United States enough to risk life and limb in a bomb-laden country.
I was still considering this as I went to happy hour one night at the hotel, which offered pints of that patriot Sam Adams’ Summer Ale for $2 and homemade potato chips for free. I joked in my mind that these perks made America worth fighting for, as I walked to dinner at nearby Umberto’s, a pizzeria desperately trying to be authentic with its Signore bathroom-door signs but utterly failing with its “sidewalk café” covered by RV awnings inside a strip-mall corridor. The food was decidedly domestic, too, as the vegetables in my seafood ravioli were obviously made by Green Giant, judging from the crinkle cut of the carrots.
As I people-gawked during my meal, though, I began to see that this was not the small town that it seemed. I overheard one server tell a couple who could’ve easily played my grandparents in a TV movie that her family was trying to move to the States from São Paulo, Brazil, to join her. They smiled in her face, murmured behind her back, and probably dropped no more than 10 percent for her tip. My waiter revealed himself as a non-native English speaker as well, possibly Salvadorean, when a nearby customer ordered a “Peroni cerveza” and “pasta picante.”
Other patrons included a three-generation 4G family in which the post-16 and Pregnant mother ignored her mother with an iPhone and vice versa while the grandfather helped his granddaughter with an app and vice versa. Down a couple of tables from them was a couple out to eat with their adult child, whom I would bet was a lesbian. And the payout of the bet would be the “Good People Drink Good Beer” T-shirt she was wearing. Across from me was the imposing awkwardness of a first date where friends try to become something more by the guy pulling out the chair for his girl “like he does for his granny.”
Alongside the “café,” I manage to catch some conversations over the pounding music of the fitness center next door, which is located next to a billiards center, which are swathed by a Food Lion, Gabriel Brothers, and Room Store, which is offering four years of free interest with a minimum $1,999 purchase. After dad receives text from mom, kid asks: “What does she want?” As 9-year-old boy grabs for phone, dad responds: “Can I at least look at it first?” Later, a similarly buzz-cut tween asks his dad: “Can we at least go to McDonald’s?” And younger sister asserts to no avail: “I know where we can eat: home.”
In between these auditory snippets, fleeting images stalk the hallway. A trio of young Latino men, likely oft said to match the description of suspected gang members. A tight-jeaned, Broadway-worshipping high-schooler with his Confederate-clad, gun-loving pal. A sharp-dressed Samoan man on a mission. A series of families of a similar economic class yet dissimilar ethnicities.
Ah, the absurdity of it all. Absurdities I often mock with my friends to separate myself from the chaff. And yet, absurdities that define American – my – culture. When I have lived overseas, I often have noted the contradictions within the society. Somewhere inside, I probably contrasted this with a sense of consistency in the States. But the only consistency we have is in our incongruity: We want to give our children the moon but balk if they become spoiled. We want authentic culture but only if it is served in a comfortable American package. We want good deals from 4 to 7 p.m. but shell out thousands of dollars if we can delay payment for a few years. We want the traditional family dinner but only if we can communicate with people not at the table all the while. We want to build a community but not if we have to let in too many outsiders and their opposing beliefs.
And still, our government sends thousands of people around the world to represent U.S. interests, either because other country’s citizens want to be like us or we think they want to be like us. How ludicrous! But sitting there, taking a break from learning about the outrageous lengths others will take to harm those representatives, I realized that I would defend our ridiculous inconsistency. Indeed, I, too, want to be a proud American – but only if it doesn’t make me too blindly patriotic.
POSTSCRIPT: In an interesting coincidence, I found out during the middle of training that I had passed the written Foreign Service Officer Test, meaning I advance to the second step of the application process: responding to a personal questionnaire (the third and final step is the “oral” exam, which includes an interview and other face-to-face scenarios). When I told TJ the good news, he responded that maybe I could go with him to Iraq or Afghanistan for his next tour. Maybe. After a nice posting in Europe, East Asia, or South America. I’m definitely not that patriotic yet.
I was still considering this as I went to happy hour one night at the hotel, which offered pints of that patriot Sam Adams’ Summer Ale for $2 and homemade potato chips for free. I joked in my mind that these perks made America worth fighting for, as I walked to dinner at nearby Umberto’s, a pizzeria desperately trying to be authentic with its Signore bathroom-door signs but utterly failing with its “sidewalk café” covered by RV awnings inside a strip-mall corridor. The food was decidedly domestic, too, as the vegetables in my seafood ravioli were obviously made by Green Giant, judging from the crinkle cut of the carrots.
As I people-gawked during my meal, though, I began to see that this was not the small town that it seemed. I overheard one server tell a couple who could’ve easily played my grandparents in a TV movie that her family was trying to move to the States from São Paulo, Brazil, to join her. They smiled in her face, murmured behind her back, and probably dropped no more than 10 percent for her tip. My waiter revealed himself as a non-native English speaker as well, possibly Salvadorean, when a nearby customer ordered a “Peroni cerveza” and “pasta picante.”
Other patrons included a three-generation 4G family in which the post-16 and Pregnant mother ignored her mother with an iPhone and vice versa while the grandfather helped his granddaughter with an app and vice versa. Down a couple of tables from them was a couple out to eat with their adult child, whom I would bet was a lesbian. And the payout of the bet would be the “Good People Drink Good Beer” T-shirt she was wearing. Across from me was the imposing awkwardness of a first date where friends try to become something more by the guy pulling out the chair for his girl “like he does for his granny.”
Alongside the “café,” I manage to catch some conversations over the pounding music of the fitness center next door, which is located next to a billiards center, which are swathed by a Food Lion, Gabriel Brothers, and Room Store, which is offering four years of free interest with a minimum $1,999 purchase. After dad receives text from mom, kid asks: “What does she want?” As 9-year-old boy grabs for phone, dad responds: “Can I at least look at it first?” Later, a similarly buzz-cut tween asks his dad: “Can we at least go to McDonald’s?” And younger sister asserts to no avail: “I know where we can eat: home.”
In between these auditory snippets, fleeting images stalk the hallway. A trio of young Latino men, likely oft said to match the description of suspected gang members. A tight-jeaned, Broadway-worshipping high-schooler with his Confederate-clad, gun-loving pal. A sharp-dressed Samoan man on a mission. A series of families of a similar economic class yet dissimilar ethnicities.
Ah, the absurdity of it all. Absurdities I often mock with my friends to separate myself from the chaff. And yet, absurdities that define American – my – culture. When I have lived overseas, I often have noted the contradictions within the society. Somewhere inside, I probably contrasted this with a sense of consistency in the States. But the only consistency we have is in our incongruity: We want to give our children the moon but balk if they become spoiled. We want authentic culture but only if it is served in a comfortable American package. We want good deals from 4 to 7 p.m. but shell out thousands of dollars if we can delay payment for a few years. We want the traditional family dinner but only if we can communicate with people not at the table all the while. We want to build a community but not if we have to let in too many outsiders and their opposing beliefs.
And still, our government sends thousands of people around the world to represent U.S. interests, either because other country’s citizens want to be like us or we think they want to be like us. How ludicrous! But sitting there, taking a break from learning about the outrageous lengths others will take to harm those representatives, I realized that I would defend our ridiculous inconsistency. Indeed, I, too, want to be a proud American – but only if it doesn’t make me too blindly patriotic.
POSTSCRIPT: In an interesting coincidence, I found out during the middle of training that I had passed the written Foreign Service Officer Test, meaning I advance to the second step of the application process: responding to a personal questionnaire (the third and final step is the “oral” exam, which includes an interview and other face-to-face scenarios). When I told TJ the good news, he responded that maybe I could go with him to Iraq or Afghanistan for his next tour. Maybe. After a nice posting in Europe, East Asia, or South America. I’m definitely not that patriotic yet.
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