There are scars in Europe that places seem to carry, like a limp that lingers after the wound has mostly healed. People who have walked alongside a friend with a limp grow accustomed to it; don’t even notice it over the years, as it’s just a part of the person now. But someone who sees the limp for the first time thinks, “Oh! Poor you!” Then hesitates to express empathy because there is no sign that the limp even concerns the person any more, and besides it would be rude to draw attention.
As I walked around places in Europe, seeing remnants of so many ages gone by, hearing stories of so many wars and upheavals on the very ground I walked on, I felt a little ache and wanted to express empathy that I know would have only come off as awkward. In my country, we haven’t lived enough to understand what it’s like to carry anything that long. We are youthful and energetic and cocky and when we look at our elders, we don’t mean to feel sorry for them, it’s just that we truly don’t know the depths of the scars.
We live in a culture of instant gratification. If I want feedback on my work, enough hashtags can generate double-digit Instagram likes in seconds. It is a bit shocking to an American’s system, to sense the times of loss and deprivation and outright attack and occupation and fear that live on somehow in the spaces of foreign lands. It is the same earthly air I breathed there; the same sun rises in the morning. Yet, in Europe, in the subconscious, centuries of massive shifts of power yank and influence like tides a regular ocean doesn’t know.
In the U.S., we are like rebellious teenagers, sometimes fighting or sometimes killing each other because we are confused or sick or life seems pointless. The source of our aches, like the source of our gratification, feels immediate. Whereas traveling through Europe, I have felt that traditions and scars alike have been passed on through many generations.
If you are born in Europe, it’s like you pick up an understanding — a maturity — from an early age of how finite things are; how things will change, powers will shift, places will be destroyed, and other things held sacred even as the power changes. You grow up seeing old structures from Medieval times, you see holes in the tapestry of a city’s architecture left by bombs, and reminders of numerous battles, as well as evidence that some things do endure.
If you are born American, the understanding you pick up is more like the most important thing is to dream. We aren’t taught to look for lingering scars, we’re taught to imagine, explore, and conquer. We might be scrappy teenagers, annoying in our ignorance, but we are not weighted down. We might not have the wisdom and maturity, but we have vitality. Still, the price we pay for this lack of maturity, is that we are constantly bombarded with the message that people should live the dream, and by comparison, many of us feel small. We don’t see ourselves as part of a very long history — we think we are just a flash in the pan, and unless we are burning as brightly as possible, we always feel like we’re falling a little bit short.
I liked being an American in Europe. It felt important for the feeling of history there to resonate within me. I was born not weighted down by what weighs on those in other countries. There is both a sense of freedom, and a lack of groundedness in not being weighted down. So each disposition has its merits and its drawbacks. But at the risk of sounding hopelessly patriotic, being American really does mean having an incomparable sense of freedom engrained in you. It’s meant admitting how full of ourselves we can be, but comparing myself to Europeans has helped me to see and appreciate the advantages I have being American.
Centuries more of Western history ground Europeans in humbleness. So, it’s not possible for me to go forward without some perspective on the comparative cockiness of my nation. But neither will I take for granted the grandiose sense of possibility the U.S. has always stood for.
I found some comfort in Europe, in not having to be grandiose. In speaking in lower tones. In being more reserved. It was calming. I’d like to breathe some of that calm out for my fellow Americans to drink in. I adore our orientation towards freedom and possibility. But we do drive ourselves a little nuts, constantly chasing and comparing, and perhaps feeling like everyone around has more or is doing more.
The eccentric stride we walk around with in America is never feeling quite adequate, never feeling like we can truly give ourselves a break. I’ve only just realized how frantic we must look, rushing around all the time, speaking so loudly, never satisfied. I wonder if other countries look at us and go, “Man, if I had that kind of freedom engrained in me, I would slow down and enjoy it once it awhile.”
Still, in a very general way, I don’t think we feel encumbered by as long-standing a limp as some places do. And, that makes it really awesome to be American. I really don’t even think we realize it.
