Being Un-American

My friend Jonathan (from Uganda) loves giving me a hard time. Whenever the two of us sit in our dorm living room in the evenings, I groan - and, admittedly, occasionally cuss - at my choppy, low frequency wireless signal, and he sings aloud to one American rapper or another emanating from his new computer. Meanwhile, a Simpsons or Family Guy (poor quality American exports, in my opinion) re-run plays a bit too loudly for my liking from the den television.

“Lauren?” he asks, turning his computer screen to show me the video he is watching. “Do you know who this is?”

“Huh? What? Who? No.” I glance up briefly.

“You don’t know who this is?”

“No!”

“My God,” he chuckles. “I don’t believe it!” Jonathan searches through his small library and makes his next rap selection, singing along at a slightly too-high pitch to Usher, Fifty Cent, Snoop Dogg, or whoever it is.

Last night, he showed me a picture of a beautiful brunette actress in a magazine someone had tossed on the coffee table. “Lauren, do you know who this is?”

“Her? No.”

“She’s on the OC, Orange County … have you seen it?”

“Me? No,” I laughed. “Some American I am, huh?”

“I’m beginning to wonder!” he replied.

These little exchanges of ours remind me of one of the greatest compliments I have ever received … on a night train from Naples to Venice seven years ago, of all places. I sat across from a tall, dark-skinned Italian with naturally (of course) curly hair. We carried on a conversation for well over half an hour --- from traveling to women’s rights to food to religion to literature --- before he paused and asked, “Excuse me, but do you mind if I ask you where you are from?”

“Not at all,” I said. “But I want you to guess.”

“Well, you have red hair [This was near the beginning of my five-year run of short, red, spiky hair.], so Ireland?”

“No.”

“You’re tall … Scandinavia? Germany? France?”
“Nope.”

He progressed through nearly all of the European nations save for the Mediterranean ones … apparently, I was not olive enough for this heritage.

“Canada?” he asked quizzically.

“Keep trying!” I chuckled.

“No, really, where are you from?”

“I’m American … from Iowa in the States.”

“You’re not American!”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I am,” I grinned.

“But you don’t seem American to me …” he said as he started to gather his things to get off at the impending station.

“Wait,” I said. “Please tell me why you say this.”

“Well, number one … you’re not fat like the other Americans, and number two … you have a different --- how should I say it? --- personality than other Americans I have met …”

“Thank you,” I replied. “That means a lot to me.”

He turned to go. “Thanks for a great conversation. Enjoy your ventures through Italy.” And with a nod of his head, he was gone into the night. I never got his name, but I’ve never forgotten what he said.

This morning, I began my week of anesthesia here at Sodersjukhuset. At the end of our introductory lecture, Jonathan asked if the physicians here use the ASA classification system to rate patients heading into procedures like they employ in Uganda.

“Yes,” our English preceptor said.

“Excuse me,” I said. “But what does ASA mean?”

The doctor looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “It stands for the American Society of Anesthesiologists.”

“Oh,” I laughed. “I’m sorry … I haven’t had my anesthesia rotation back home yet!” Apparently, my lack of American-ese extends from cultural awareness to medical acronyms.

I didn't have to look at Jonathan. I already knew he was grinning at me in disbelief.