Les Américains Barbares

I have been trying to cull my "stuff," and in doing so, came upon an essay I wrote in college that surprised and shocked me. But for a few names, it could have been written today: 

   Somewhere in our storage room, in some big box, along with all the family’s other reminders of hectic years, is a bundle of yellowed slips of paper, each bearing an 11-year-old boy’s carefully handwritten message: “Please vote for Mr. Kennedy.” He—my little brother—had made many, virtuously laboring for long days in order to contribute his part to his hero’s campaign. He had worked hard, but had only had time to distribute one-third of his leaflets before he heard that not only were they no longer necessary but they were quickly becoming superfluous to the fast-moving citizens of a fast-moving country.

   But that is his story, and he can relate it better than I can. I, however, also have a story, one that is quite different, for I was not in the United States when I learned of Robert Kennedy’s assassination. Allegedly for the advancement of my fluency in the French language—but, I suspect, so that I could catch up to my classmates in age before entering high school—I was locked away (because that's how I saw it) in a school in Switzerland.

   It was a difficult nine months, but I came away from them having learned much more than just another language. For me, academic learning that year took second place to social learning. My roommate was Iranian, and my classmates belonged to every country imaginable. We were a miniature United Nations in every aspect except
diplomacy, and when the horrifying news of yet another American assassination assailed our ears, I, as one of the total of three or four U.S. delegates, became the object of much discussion and displeasure.

   Of all the accusations that were thrown at us, the one I remember most vividly is “You Americans are always killing people.” When I attempted to point out that the murderer was not American, my roommate countered with “He was probably forced to do it. He was hired by Americans.”

   That day and the week that followed it were virtually unbearable. Despite the teachers’ efforts to separate us, the “American contingent” clung frantically together whenever possible, easing our distress by formulating outrageous plans for revenge and escape, in that order. We felt ashamed. We felt defensive but didn't know how to defend our country. We felt alone and homesick.

   As time progressed, we were forgiven our unfortunate genealogy by our classmates, and the unpleasant episode was all but forgotten by everyone but the adults. Those who should have known better, but who obviously didn’t, the teachers and administrators, continued to plague us for the rest of the year. I was convinced that for some reason unknown to me, they had disliked the United States for a long time and had only been waiting for the proper excuse to vent their feelings.

   An incident that I remember most clearly took place one afternoon between classes. A compatriot and I had chosen this moment to exchange a few words and were talking softly when a teacher swooped down on us screaming, “What rude behavior! Maybe in your barbaric America you can engage in conversations in the halls, but here you will have to learn to be civilized!” It was completely absurd, but as we walked to our next class, I could feel what I interpreted as the disapproving looks of the other students who had congregated there.

   Back in the States, the defensiveness I had felt in a foreign country gave way to deep sadness. There was, of course, the war in Vietnam: "You Americans are always killing people." And when the Manson Family murders made the news, I said to myself, “You Americans are always killing people.” When the National Guard fired on student protesters at Kent State, I said to myself, “You Americans are always killing people.” I am 18 now and I wonder, How many more times in my life will events remind me of the painful truth behind that accusatory phrase?