Stereotypes and Self-Made Neophytes

Russian Orthodox Catheral on a sunny winter's day ... not far from my school.

"If there was anything new, it was a simulation of something old."

- Orhan Pamuk, The Black Book, translation by Maureen Freely

"Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I'm not the same, the next question is 'Who in the world am I?'"

- Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

Dear Friends,

Everyone knows something about Americans.

These are some of the knowing questions I field regularly:

Why do Americans smile all the time?

Do Americans really believe they can make themselves happier?

Do Americans really mean it when they ask, 'How are you'?

Don't most Americans still believe in God?

And my personal favorite, Tim, is it true that all Americans are fat?

I've had ample time to hone my response to these questions which usually goes something like this: "Jesus Christ Lord Krishna, of course I don't care how you're doing. Do I look happy to you? Now, tell me how to get to the nearest McDonald's!" I turn and scuff off, frowning like an imperialistic Oscar the Grouch with clogged arteries, leaving a quivering Latvian in the dust.

Everyone knows something about Americans, and it's not their fault. "Where is Hollywood?" asks German sociologist Dieter Hassenplug. "Everywhere." Even off of my home turf here in Europe, it often seems like the natives have home-court advantage on two accounts.

Traveling through Poland on the choir tour last month, my fast friend Maris tapped me and, pointing out the bus window, said, "Hey Tim, look, it's Uncle Sam!" Maris is in seventh grade and speaks English more fluently than the majority of my high school students. Sure enough, there on a billboard outside of Warsaw was everyone's ubiquitous uncle, decked in clothes borrowed from Santa Claus's wardrobe, index finger pointing back at us. A shopping ad.

"Wow, Maris, I'm impressed! You must have had some terrific history teachers! Is that who taught you about Uncle Sam?"

"No," he replied flatly. "The Simpsons."

Mark my words: The downfall of English teachers will have nothing to do with apathy, burn-out, paperwork, low pay, or the apocalypse. When all of us former English teachers are sitting off somewhere grading each other's essays for the forty-seventh time, we'll have no one to thank for our present ink-stained status except Bart, Marge, and Homer. (Not the poet.)

I don't mind hearing my (what an audacious choice of pronouns, but you know what I mean) music in the stores and restaurants or seeing my movies at the cinema. And I can't help but secretly snicker every time I pass a porky European -- take heart, fellow Americans, Europeans are catching up to us at an alarming rate! -- and think, And they say we're fat!

What's curious to me is how little we -- how little I -- know about the rest of the world. Sure, Americans all have their ideas of Paris and the demeanor of French people and London and the queen. We know Japanese are tech-savvy and Indians often become successful doctors. But what about the rest of the globe? Where are our international professorial Jerry Springers and Oprah Winfreys?

And yet there's a super-sized amount of bliss in our ignorance, isn't there? One of my family members spoke for many of us when she started a conversation with me last summer. We were standing in the food line. "Tim, why the hell do you wanna go to La-ta-via?"

A few month's later at my grandfather's birthday party in July, I pulled over the globe and attempted to show my younger cousin where I would be living for the next year. Shamefully, my stalling finger took too long to land on the small Baltic country. "So, I'll be staying... um... right... here." And this was a month before I left!

This rather insignificant act triggered a deep-seeded fear that had been following me like a dark shadow. A week or so before departing, the shadow that I had been long trying to flood with man-made light got the best of me, and in a tearful quake of terror, I confided in a confidante, "What if the year is nothing but cold and dark? What if I'm all alone?" Honestly, I was afraid after having spent each year of my life signing my return address with the same five-digit zip code that apart from all familiarity -- with a new set of numbers -- I might not know who I am at all. Isn't the definition of "self" always defined by others? It's not what I think about me, but what you think and say about me that counts, right? On my better days, I was intrigued by the idea of finding myself (pardon the despicable cliche) like a spy from a detective novel. When feeling more vulnerable, especially in the presence of cherished friends and family, I was utterly terrified about discovering who has been lurking inside this skin of mine the last 28 years, shed of the titles, the family background, in short, the history that makes me me.

Stereotypes, of course, are not the racist, sexist, homophobic, xenophobic bits of evil that some folks would have us believe. Stereotypes always contain a kernel of truth from someone, somewhere, sometime, if irrelevant today. Stereotypes are instructive and help us define and assess our surroundings. The problems with stereotypes occur when they are left unexamined. Like the pop-up pieces on a carnival game, our stereotypes need to be bonked down again and again.

Many of the American stereotypes seem to fit me like a tailored suit, so I guess I rely on them to define me among strangers. Yes, I smile a lot. Yes, I believe in God. Do I really mean it when I ask you how you're doing? Well, yes and no... (Sometime I'll share the perfect response imparted by one of my wise colleagues.) Do I worry about being flabby? Yes.

That's why this week, after too many months of living a gloriously sedentary lifestyle, I joined a gym. For 33 Lats (think 60 bucks) a month, I can delve into the hearty array of fitness options available at Atletika, less than two blocks away from my flat. Yesterday was my first day back in the land of the calorie-counting. Oh, it felt great to be back! The facility is nice with everything you might expect: black padded floors, spirited orange and white walls, plenty of mirrors, and pulsing, spastic music meant to arouse the comatose to a new lease on life. My first observation, though, upon walking into the gym involved none of these things. Rather, my first thought was, "Wow, these are a bunch of good-looking people!" I caught my breath and adjusted my plain white T-shirt and aged pair of Adidas shorts, anything to unsettle the film of corn dust that had been cast upon me like a permanent farmer's tan.

I made my entrance and went to work. The view from the treadmills over looking the bustling corner of Barona and Martas ielas is invigoratingly beautiful. And as I trotted along, I found myself running in sync with the remix of Justin Timberlake's "Sexy Back" thumbing from the speakers. In the corner, I glanced at the progress of a tennis match in the Australian Open, the modern-day saints on screen dressed like the barbies and kens meandering around the sweaty sanctuary of fitness. I wondered if gyms, like churches, too often only attract those who look the part. Without the pious support of these buff stuffs parading around, would the gym cease to exist? Where are the fat sinners? Where are the ones who really could use a conversion?

As I walked out of the locker room an hour or so later, I was pleased to pass a pleasantly plump woman in spandex walking into the gym. She was proud and angelic, ready to flex her muscles or work down the waist.

"Must be American," I thought. I felt at home.

Yours,
Tim