I had so many ideas of America before I arrived here. To me, it had almost become a caricature of itself – an untouchable one, at that. After endless stock portrayals in films, TV shows and literature, when I arrived here, I was struck with deja vu. It felt like I had already seen the cinematic landscape which, at least in aesthetics, lives up to its perceptions.
England is obsessed with the infiltration of American culture, so much so that I felt like I had to see it for myself. And here I am, soaking up the vast campus, the southern hospitality and, of course, the social wildlife. Since my arrival, a popular topic of conversation has been “Erm, so I’m just interested… Why Alabama?” And aside from the obvious benefits of the stunning, well-equipped university and the links to my course in American Literature, I still haven’t formulated a proper answer. It’s an adventure, I continually claim. And that it is.
The South has so much stigma attached to it for an outsider, and after catching my connecting flight in Atlanta, an airport run by a black majority and coming to a leafy U.S. campus, the truths began to expose themselves voluntarily.
No British university would allow greek culture to stand the test of time. To me, it’s a whole new social structure, one which I can only identify with on a level of “one time in the UK, we had a party with red cups.”
At first glance, the exclusivity is starling and, if I’m honest, slightly incomprehensible to me. The Spartans and the sirens. The stuff of Greek mythology. I understand that it matches the Roman pillars and the square grass, but I struggle to see how it promotes equality and acceptance, an image the South, post-civil rights movement, seems set on portraying. Like the ancient Greek letters above each house (whose origin no one has yet been able to tell me), this seems an outdated way of living. Perhaps I’m too much of a modern socialist.
The sociological bars have been raised to a level I have never experienced before. I study at University of Glasgow, in Glasgow, Scotland and live in a flat with another girl and two boys who are both music producers and run a big club at night. We’re all students enjoying the benefits of being young, partying and being exposed to a constant flow of popular culture. By the time we got to university, social segregation had all but disappeared and people could go about their life choices without false smiles and judging glances.
Moving into a shared room in a single-sex dorm right behind sorority row makes for interesting living. Coming to a campus university has immediately shrunk my need to travel far; convenience is certainly an American trait – one I could get dangerously used to. I think my life back in Scotland was much less concerned with surface values. Here everything and everyone is beautiful – the unfamiliar obsession with sport demands so – but at this moment in my journey, there is still a hole here, one which was filled back home by the privilege of acceptance.
Despite these piercing observations, I’m learning everyday how best to navigate myself through this landscape of “trashschutes,” rolling tides and gym shorts as daywear. I’ve had the Wal-Mart experience, picked my way through the thrift store and stayed up until absurd hours to observe the 5 a.m. crowd at Waffle House. As a romantic, I suppose this is the Steinbeck-esque language I came here to read.
And the stereotypes work both ways. I have been asked several times if I am indeed really British. And I’ll admit, I average about eight cups of tea a day, never stop reading and, yes, my oral hygiene is pretty poor. My British sarcasm and naturally reserved nature have been challenged with American openness – something I have come to enjoy.
My year has only just begun, but already I feel I need to dig deep beneath surface appearances to satisfy my foreign skin.
