The Last Word
Tharp On:
America By Chris
Tharp Illustration By Michael Roy
Whether you love Americans, hate Americans or could care less either way, it’s not always easy being born of the red, white and blue. The other night I was sitting at home, listening to some old cuts of recentlydeparted country legend George Jones. There I was, steeping in whisky and soaking in his honey-dripped honkytonk croon, when suddenly a realization slapped me upside my sweaty, sentimental head: I am an American. That’s right— I’m an earnest, red-blooded, optimistic, two-fisted, indoor voice-challenged, tap dancin’ Yankee Doodle Dandy. Yee-haw! I was lucky enough to be born into that big, complicated, hullabaloo of a nation: 300 million of us and growing—and that’s not even counting the Mexicans. I sometimes forget about my nationality; living for nearly a decade in a kind of self-imposed exile can do that. I am now part of a truly international community, and my attachments to home—both literal and figurative—lessen each day. Am I proud to be an American? No, but I can’t say that I’m ashamed either. Like many folks who spend time abroad, I’ve come to believe that people should be judged on personality and actions, rather than which side of the border they happened to be on whilst passing through their mother’s vagina. But I am an American, and this is how many people see me—whether I like it or not. And I know this may come as a surprise to some of you, but there are people out there who love America— 60 HAPS_summer 2013
especially Korean men over the age of 60. They’re old enough remember the war, and often hold a modicum of gratitude toward good ol’ Uncle Sam. When hearing that I’m from the States, many of these friendly geezers smile, slap my back, and shout, “USA very good!” before asking me to come over and give their grandkids free English lessons. An American buddy was once riding in a cab and when the ancient driver found out he was from America, he stopped the car, shook my friend’s hand and said: “Korea-America! Friends! Hiroshima! BOOM! Thank you!”
humanity despise us, it makes us incredibly sad. We think: So what if we’ve been a bit loose with the bombings and preemptive invasions of nations that posed no real threat to us? That’s just tough love. We’re actually really, really nice. Come visit if you don’t believe us! We’ll bake you a pie! We Americans have a reputation for being idiots, which I’ve always found disheartening and unfair. I try my best to disprove this prejudice (when sober enough), sometimes with good effect. Many times I’ve been abroad, talking with some European dude over a few beers,
I am an American. That’s right—I’m an earnest, red-blooded, optimistic, two-fisted, indoor voice-challenged, tap dancin’ Yankee Doodle Dandy. Yee-haw! That’s right. My friend was personally thanked for the nuking of Japan. I guess this is just one of the many perks of holding the navy blue passport. Of course America’s image isn’t what it used to be, though I’m not convinced that it was ever so great, contrary to what they teach us at home. After all, we Americans are like slobbery, dumb dogs who just want to be loved the world over. We are actually quite needy and insecure. When we learn that, in truth, large chunks of
only to hear him confesses: “You’re pretty smart for an American!” For an American. What kind of backhanded compliment is that? Who did he expect, Yosemite Sam? That’s like saying, “You’re really pretty for a burn victim. Your nose may avalanche straight into your chin like a melted ice cream cone, but your eyes have a real sparkle!” Other times I’ve encountered utter contempt when foreigners discovered my nationality, including an incredibly rude