Archive for July, 2007

are you an american?

[Note: this is part of a continuing retrospective after a semester abroad in Santiago, Chile. For more background to the trip, click here]

Nationality also presents an interesting topic, especially when it comes to language. Living in Chile, I became used to referring to myself as an estadounidense, stemming from the Spanish term for the United States, los Estados Unidos. I would never have called myself an ‘americano,’ because, as my friend Ruo Shin pointed out, everyone in North and South America is by definition an American. Nevertheless, this bit of political correctness falters when you transition to English. Unlike Spanish, in which long, laser-precise words are plentiful (ex. to get dark = anochecer, to be located = ubicar) , our Anglo-Saxon inheritance prefers to the linguistic equivalent of tossed salad – lots of words mixed up illogically to form an idea (this is also one of the more significant problems for ESL learners; why in the world do we say ‘hurry up’ or ‘wait up’?). So what happens to estadounidense? In essence, it becomes an error in translation. Although you can work around the idea with phrases like ‘from the United States’ or ‘resident of the United States’, there simply is no direct translation for estadounidense. It just doesn’t exist.

Nevertheless, the need to express your nationality in English doesn’t dissapear, so I’ve found myself falling back on the arrogant but undeniably-convenient moniker of ‘American.’ In some ways, I feel guilty for this; I understand that everyone in these two continents merits the title of ‘American.’ Nevertheless, if the purpose of language is only to communicate, then it seems almost arbitrary to insist that in English that one continue to refer to U.S. citizens by an awkward, workaround construction. Granted, it makes for a bad translation to Spanish if read literally, but then again, if a Canadian translated the term norteamericano directly, they would have right to take offense as well (because it is used as a synonym for estadounidense).

So how does one balance cultural sensitivity and effective communication? And when does the accepted verbal standards take precedence over unintentional connotations? (In some ways, this echoes the ‘original meaning’ vs. ‘accepted meaning’ debate over Halloween or other ostensibly ‘pagan’ holidays in religious circles) I guess for now, I’m using the prepositional workaround when possible, but am not afraid to bust out the ‘American’ designation when things just get too messy. In Spanish, however, it’s definitely estadounidense or norteamericano. Anything else just doesn’t cut it.

[for other excellent, if slightly esoteric, language discussions, check out John's take on Mandarin eccentricities]

a chilean to his fellow americans: this place is interesting!

Wow, things are different.

Tonight at 11:15 pm will mark the one-week anniversary of planting my feet in United States territory. Somehow, though, it doesn’t seem like it’s been only seven days since I stumbled off that plane in Dulles, tired and homesick for Chile. Instead, it seems like a century, an immense separation between the life that I knew and the life that I’m living now. Things have changed, quite permanently. I don’t think I’ll ever look at the United States the same way again.

Nevertheless, I know that this feeling is temporary. Over time, my memories of Chile will fade, just like the memories of North America disappeared when I was south of the Equator. Sure, I’ll always remember some significant aspects of the semester, but the beautiful details will be gone forever. I have a horrible long-term memory, and I know the surest way for me to forget something is to not write it down. So, in pursuit of a memory, I’d like to start documenting some feelings and recollections from my time in Chile. It’s been well over a month since I lasted posted to this blog, and it’s high time it got some attention.

The first that I noticed arriving in the United States was the strange language the people spoke. “Please have your passport and documents ready,” informed the loudspeaker. “Here ma’am, can I help you with that?” an attendant intoned in an urban drawl. To put it bluntly, this was quite confusing. While I was used to speaking English with my friends in casual conversations, I was definitely accustomed to talking to officials and strangers in Spanish. To suddenly walk up to the customs guy and say, “Hi.” felt embarrassingly awkward. Doesn’t our language have some kind of equivalent for “Buenas noches”? a way to express politeness without the oppressive formality of “good evening”? (we may indeed, but given as how I would start speaking Spanish to my lab supervisor the next day, I was not really feeling like a human thesaurus at the time) In many ways, I wished I could be a student in the ESL classes I taught while I was in Chile. Maybe my students could have helped me out a bit.

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(my English-class kids could have helped with my own language on returning)


Once I finally managed to sneak my mate through customs, I encountered the second oddity about the U.S. It’s hot right now! and green! and beautiful! Living in a smog-filled Santiago in the heart of a drab, frigid winter, I had forgotten what plants and sun were. Even now, looking out at the corn field surrounding my lab, I’m having a hard time getting over the explosion of brilliant greens and yellows. It’s rather impressive.

Another thing about the United States is the way we get around. In short, we have no public transportation. Oh, to be sure, we have metro lines in our New York and D.C., but the majority of the nation is not connected by any kind of reliable transit system. Ask anyone who’s ridden the Greyhound home from State College; our public transport could be considered quite horrendous. It’s enough so that the grad students in my lab cite the lack of transport as a main reason for working in Hershey rather than State College. We’ve got to do something about our public transport.

The flip side of this issue is that America has a car culture. We like owning our ride, spinning the keys around our fingers like a clinking symbol of power and maturity. In Chile, though, getting the keys is much more than a rite of passage when you turn 16; instead, it’s a badge of socioeconomic status and prestige. If you have a car, you’re rich. If you’re rich, you have a car. While in the States, it’s practically shameful to not have your license, in Chile, a majority of children never learn to drive because they never get the opportunity. (side note: why the heck does Penn Dot get the right to tax us a $26 ‘renewal fee’ every four years for just a camera card?!?) I don’t know if I have an opinion on this issue; it’s not that V-8 empowerment for ever child is a constitutional right, but I have definitely enjoyed the liberty of high velocity while I’ve been back (maybe a little too much…I think I may have picked up something from the rich (and super-loco) Santiago drivers.) Either way, it’s an interesting observation.

[a conclusion would be here if I could write one. but I can't and won't be able to for a while. maybe in a bit, though...]