American Pride

Believe it or not, I still tell people I’m American, although I make sure no one sees my red, white and blue “Property of the USA” briefs. During the 1960s the French coined the word “coca-colonization,” but what we see today is flat out aggression. Americans living abroad are not unresponsive to this new climate. Last week in a suburb of Mainz, a GI stabbed someone to death in a discotheque. Before that there was a case of American teenagers dropping stones from an overpass trying to hit cars speeding by on the Autobahn—they got one and managed to kill a woman. This was all well publicized, and at parties I politely retreat to the corner and press my nose to the wall.

There was a time when Americans could visit a consulate without waiting an hour to get in, but nowadays applying for a passport renewal is akin to entering a war zone, demanding nothing short of dodging searchlights, jumping fences and crawling under barbed wire to get to the lady behind the window: “The eagle has landed,” now means, “my son is at the cashier,” and making it back to neutral territory in one piece is considered a successful mission. It is difficult to come to terms with the collective force of one’s compatriots in an era of war. We either shun them, as if they were from another country, or we find ourselves defending them against our will. In both cases we are under their control.

I am not what one could call a “proud American.” It’s not that I’m ungrateful for the environment in which I grew up—I am—but for me pride is not an emotion arising from nationality. After all, at least etymologically speaking, nationality is linked to birth, and how can one be proud of being born? When visiting the maternity ward of a hospital, I have never thought: “Look at the babies wiggling proudly in their cribs.” To be honest, I wonder from where this emotion arises. When does it develop? Like most people, I’m familiar with the feeling that accompanies the satisfaction of accomplishment, and yet for me this feeling is not without ambiguity: I feel the warmth of contentment with myself and the world, but also the shadow of an inflated ego. I fear that pride is nothing more than the hot air filling my balloon of self-deception, and the moment I’ve succumbed to it, I’ve become silly—like a baby wiggling proudly in its crib.

It is an exaggeration to speak of war in the context of this essay, and the fact that this subject has slithered its way into my mundane discussions is evidence of its allure. War, for the most part, exists for those who participate in it and those who are affected by it. For the rest of us, life plods along at its usual pace—that is, uneventfully—and the latest James Cameron movie garners more attention than the casualties in Afghanistan.

But something has changed: a visitor has stepped up from our midst. In our moment of crisis we were, of course, happy to see anyone, and if in our confusion we didn’t offer a seat to our visitor, we didn’t have to rack our brains about how to handle the situation because the guest, slipping in uninvited, sat down comfortably, staying longer than expected. We reassured ourselves with the thought that there was something good in this, that unification was what we needed, and this new explosive energy, our visitor, would pull us through. But after the first surprise visit passed, we became aware that it wasn’t a well-meaning interest that prompted this unexpected guest to knock on our door. The reason for the visit became apparent from our agitated debates: it was hatred.

For a time, as collective angst drew people closer to each other, in the sham solidarity of fear, this psychosis abated. But soon after the attacks on our “enemies,” hatred erupted again with its noxious and searing breath from and against human beings during conversations, between father and son, husband and wife, just as when one, unguardedly careless, opens the door of a hellishly overheated furnace. Why this hatred? Because in a moment of self-assuredness we lost our grip on what made us strong from the start, our freedom, and in turn we confirmed what the world did not necessarily want to hear, that we had become inferior. The confession sparked resentment, partly against our allies, but mostly directed toward ourselves. We did this out of pride.

There had once been something in America—though it had passed by the time I was born, but thanks to Walt Disney and Frank Capra I’ve felt its reverberations—something that could be, perhaps naively, called a “sense of mission.” The notion is pompous. Still, for a generation of immigrants there was some kind of reality in it; the consciousness that coming to America, being an American was not only a physical or political condition but a creed. They believed in America, resolutely, sincerely, just as they believed in Santa Claus, angels and Uncle Remus. They acquired a reputation for being childish, naïve and happy—and this didn’t bother them in the least.

Today politicians lie when they attempt to patch together power systems and flutter the slogans of the American mission over the barriers. They sing the grand aria about democracy and values on TV and in the senate, on platforms and barrel tops, decrying dictators, delineating axes of evil, as if it were the elixir of life inside that little bottle they’re trying to peddle. But where is the “idea”?—the good news (or even the suggestion of it) that is more and something other than words promoting an eroded civilization?

I was born without a sense of mission. The idea of it will always strike me as absurd—after all, I did not seek out modernism, I was born into it—and yet I long for that special something that, despite the growing size of bookstores, resides in books and films ever more difficult to find. I need that belief like a plant needs water, and, like the boy in Song of the South, upon seeing Uncle Remus leaving my world, I will blindly sprint toward him not giving death a second thought.

The Visitors

When I first moved into this apartment in Wiesbaden I had a rather odd experience. My flat is in an old building, which was divided up over the years, and hence the plasterboard in my living room, covering what was once an archway, and a jerrybuilt wall dividing my doorway from my neighbor’s. The result every time my neighbor enters her apartment is an uncanny feeling of invasion, which no visitor to my place escapes without a heart-stopping jolt. I quickly became accustomed to the crank and twist of the lock next door, the swinging open of the door and the footsteps; and during this noisy interference I could sip my coffee without making a ripple.

I should digress here a bit. About a year earlier, when I was living in Vancouver, I had rented a room with a friend from university. It was a living arrangement unique to Canada: I moved in, lived in a big wooden house with a view of snow-capped mountains, made myself at home, and eventually left without ever having had a key, because there was no key to the house—it was never locked! For an American coming from a city where windows are barred and homes have security system ads staked into the lawns, it took a while to get used to the relaxation of living in such an environment. But I adjusted, and by the time I reached Germany I believed the world was safe and kept the habit of leaving my door unlocked. 

Another habit I picked up in Canada was sleeping in the nude. I have no rational explanation for this; you may imagine the urge stemmed from a desire to feel the titillation of plushy sheets against my body, or a latent need to expose myself, but I suspect laziness played no less a role in it—laziness, and on this particular evening, exhaustion, because I have no recollection of turning out the lights and both windows in my bedroom were left open. It was one of those sultry summer nights when no more than a sheet sufficed, not so much for warmth, rather to provide a feeling of protection; but no sooner had I tumbled over the precipice of slumber than I was startled back into consciousness by the familiar crank and twist of the front door.

“Funny,” I thought to myself, still half asleep, “tonight, it really sounds like my neighbor is coming in.” The door was opened, footsteps could be heard and what sounded like scratching on the wall. “By gosh, it really does sound like she’s just outside my bedroom door,” I thought again, as the front door was shut and more shuffling could be heard. I no longer recall at what point it dawned on me that these noises in my foyer were too clear to be dismissed as normal. (It was like the time I was in my apartment in Berkeley in 1989 during the earthquake that damaged the Bay Bridge—there was a moment when my subconscious alarmed that this rumbling underfoot was lasting longer than I had ever felt, and, regardless of the fact that I was standing in my room at five p.m. in my underwear, it was time to get the hell out of there. I will never forget meeting my neighbor in the hallway—also in his underwear!)

All this transpired without the slightest presentiment of danger. I sat up in my bed, letting the sheet fall, and then ever so gently crept over to my bedroom door, trying to peek through the opening. There was someone in my apartment! I speedily tiptoed to my wardrobe, put on some shorts, and shot back to my vantage point. It was a woman, leaning awkwardly against the wall, her head hanging down like deadweight, grasping her dirty, white jeans. Before I had a chance to pull a T-shirt over my head, she grabbed the button of her pants and ripped them open. Then she took off her pants, letting them drop to the floor to reveal that she had no underwear.

I realize this is hard to believe, but it’s true. I also realize that certain readers will ascertain that I had found myself involuntarily thrust into an attractive situation. This was not true. Our lady in question did not inspire the feelings one might imagine: she looked as if she had been through the mill at least ten years prior to stumbling into my flat. Her hair was stringy and wet, her body worn and abused, and she stank; she stank like a sewer, ashtray and wet skunk rolled into one. Her white jeans were stained in a most distasteful manner, and as she turned her back to me and staggered into my living room, teetering and swerving with outstretched arms like a blind man searching for bearings, I feared she would at any moment release all the sickness clogged up inside her.

For reasons unknown, she thought she was at home, and it took no small expenditure of effort on my part to get her off my couch and back into her pants where she belonged. I should hasten to add that at this point in time my German skills were far from good and the conversation didn’t win any toastmaster prizes: “Please go,” I begged. “Max?” “No, I’m not Max. Please go.” I entertained the thought that she had occupied my flat years earlier, perhaps with a man named Max, and the alcohol had precipitated a flashback. Against my will I found myself in the role of “Max,” buttoning up her jeans, fixing her blouse, and pushing her out my front door where she collapsed onto the floor, her head propped against the wall and her torso curled up like a cat waiting to be let back in.

The following morning my visitor was gone. In the hallway I bumped into my neighbor (the one I thought was entering my apartment) and asked if she had heard the ruckus. She had. As a matter of fact, our visitor attempted the same thing in her flat—only her door was locked. By now the situation was beginning to look humorous, and I didn’t hesitate to include all the sordid details, as well as adding a few embellishments, which got wide eyes and a guffaw from my neighbor. I told her of my flashback theory and the mysterious Max to which she could only roll her eyes. Later that day I saw another neighbor downstairs and I learned that our visitor had called on him, too, although he was clever enough to ignore the drunkard. I told my story and got a few more laughs.

As I said, all this transpired without the slightest presentiment of danger. So imagine the surprise when a week later a knock came on my door—not a buzz from the street below, but a knock directly on my apartment door. I quickly threw on some shorts and a T-shirt, and went to see what was happening. I opened the door. Four police officers were standing there. One of them asked me if I had had any problems with a woman (he spoke some English and thus we were able to communicate—as I said, at the time I was still in “Deutsch 1a”, and the intimidating stare of these men didn’t help me to lighten up and try out my new language skills).

I told him: “No. There had been a woman trying to get into my apartment, but there was no trouble. She wasn’t violent or even unfriendly—just drunk.” I forget exactly what was said, but later, after the police had left and I was walking back to the kitchen, something struck me as odd: before he closed his black leather notepad and signaled for the others to leave, he told me to keep my door locked from now on. The request seemed a bit alarmist considering the pleasantness of this town and the benign nature of my unexpected visit, but I guess that is what people mean by correctness.

“Keep my door locked from now on…” Suddenly it struck me. How did he know I had left my door unlocked? I summoned all my wits to bring back that conversation in my mind. Why didn’t the cops visit my neighbors? Come to think of it, I didn’t have the impression they were there to inquire about what had happened; they were there to warn me, which led me to the conclusion that someone in my building disapproved of what went on in my apartment and—and this is the disturbing part—made his or her complaint not to me, but to the police!

On this day, my first real day in Germany, I no longer saw that cuckoo clock, garden-land that charms so many tourists. Henceforth, a tinge of paranoia crept into my life, and Canada slipped away forever. 

The Happiest Place on Earth

One of my first jobs was as a busboy in the “Quality Inn” hotel on Harbor Blvd. near Disneyland. Unfortunately, I can’t recommend it. (If you think about it, the name says it all: Does Hilton need to call itself a “quality” hotel?) It wasn’t particularly nice when I was working there and I can’t imagine it got better during the past twenty years.

photo: Anthony Marais

Unfortunately, Disneyland itself hasn’t gotten better during the past twenty years. Tomorrowland has been revamped, and ruined: the Peoplemover, Skyway, Rocket Jets, and Mission to Mars—the white-plastic vision of a clean future—are gone. Today’s Tomorrowland resembles Pittsburgh’s yesterday: a rusty, brown view of the world à la Bladerunner, Matrix or Alien—take your pick. Moreover, they’ve built, for an additional charge, an over-priced extension in the parking lot called “California Park.” But wasn’t it already a California park? Walt once commented: “After I die, I would hate to look down at this studio and find everything in a mess.” Why California? Why not more of New Orleans or Adventureland? Why not add a new exotic or fantastic locale? Disneyland used to bring the world to Californians; now it brings California to the world.

Tim Burton

And can someone tell me what Star Wars, Roger Rabbit, Indiana Jones and The Nightmare before Christmas have to do with Walt Disney? When I was young, one of my favorite attractions was the Adventure through Inner Space—a nuclear era theme ride about a scientist’s attempt to shrink himself down to the size of an atom. I can still remember his voice, speaking with a haunting fascination as snowflakes grew to the size of houses and an enormous eye in a microscope peered down onto me; finally reaching the pulsating red nucleus of an atom with giant electrons whirling around it with an unforgettable swishing sound was a climactic experience, and by the time I exited that bulbous blue seat, I was ready to become a scientist! Today, the ten-year-old youngster sits in a flight simulator for ten minutes, getting bumped, jerked and vibrated into a frenzy firing laser guns at an enemy ship while C3PO cheers him on. Equally ecstatic, he leaves the attraction and makes a b-line to the local army recruitment center.

Now Poland



Wroclaw

With no less than 115 bridges, Wroclaw is the third most “bridged” city in Europe, after Venice and Amsterdam. If it were not for the feeling that the place was raped and couldn’t quite muster the energy to pull its dress back over its shoulder, it would be one of Europe’s most desired spots. You see, up until 1945, after Berlin and Hamburg, “Breslau” (the city has had many names) was the third largest city in Germany with a population of almost a million. Toward the end of World War II, however, the German government implemented a policy of defense known as Festungen—meaning: cities as fortifications, which, if you think about it, is a barbaric idea (it’s like saying: who cares if the Jesuit College is 300 years old, this is war)—and “good old Breslau” became Festung Breslau. Needless to say, the strategy failed, and on January 20th, 1945, most of those people fled under the encroachment of soviet troops. My apologies for this radically abbreviated version of the story, but I’d merely like to add enough brush strokes to the picture to convey the feeling I had walking by a crumbling building which still bore the German language storefront of an electrical supply shop.

photo: Anthony Marais

One peculiarity the newcomer to Poland will encounter is the term: “Polish reality.” Walking along the river last week, gazing across at the fanciful cityscape of red brick steeples, gabled housetops and turn-of-the-century bridges, I commented on the beauty of this city. “Yes, of course,” Jarek rejoined, “But that’s not Wroclaw. You don’t know Polish reality.” That was the first time I heard it. Once these words became conscious, however, I noticed them creeping into virtually every conversation, usually in the context of a retort to any suggestion that Poland is a nice place. “Great food!” “Yes, of course, but this is not Polish reality.” “Wow, look at all the people sitting in cafes!” “Yes, but this is not Polish reality.” “People are so friendly here, and smiling”—again same answer.

What is Polish reality? Can someone please tell me? As far as I can see, Poles must be dreamers, because they use the word “reality” as if there were no greater anathema—much worse than the bogeyman or the big bad wolf, although comparable to what is known as a “Mad Dog.” This is a little drink, popular in bars and cafes, consisting of a shot of vodka, cassis and a few dashes of Tabasco sauce, also referred to as a “Now Poland.” I find the second name particularly revealing, as if “Poland” is a state of intoxication. Granted, the colors of this drink are reminiscent of the Polish flag, but why “Now”? It’s as if after arriving in the country, touring the cities, and meeting locals, you’re finally asked: Now Poland? Not until that moment, apparently, are you really there.

This hypothesis would, at least, explain what I witnessed that first evening at the bar called “Jatki”—namely, a grown man, inebriated to the point of catalepsy, crashing down face first onto a cobblestone street. Perhaps this was what Poles mean by “reality.” In any case, a little voice in me confided: “Tony, you’re not in Germany anymore.” A few moments later, that selfsame voice spoke again, whispering in my ear like a warm breeze. It said: “Now Poland.”