Have you ever wondered why we get to be the “Americans?”
When did the U.S. decide that our country was the default country whenever
someone referred to “America,” which really means the entire continents of
North and South America? The U.S. is one of 36 territories in “America,” yet we
don’t have a country-specific adjective for ourselves. On the other hand, all
of the Spanish-speaking countries of North and South America have
country-specific adjectives for themselves; for example, if you are from
Mexico, you are “Mexicano,” and if you are from Panama, you are “Panameño.”
On my first day in a Spanish class of international students
in Buenos Aires, we all went around the room and introduced ourselves by name,
major, and what country we were from. The first student was from the U.S. and
he identified himself as “Americano.” The professor sighed a little, and said
in a patient voice, “No, we are both ‘Americanos;’ Argentina is in America too.
You are ‘Estadounidense.’”
From then on, I took special care to make sure I always
introduced myself as “Estadounidense,” or “de los Estados Unidos,” from the
United States, instead of as “Americana.” I was glad I hadn’t gone first in
introducing myself! I started thinking a lot about how we called ourselves
“Americans.” If our ego was even embedded in our language, without us realizing
it, how many other integral parts of our culture that we take for granted are
egoistic and are probably detrimental to our relations with other countries?
Being here has also made me realize how little I know about
my own country. Whenever my newly-made friends and I meet residents of Buenos
Aires, they ask us what state we are from. (Almost everybody in Argentina
recognizes the names of the states, but many don’t know where they are or much
more about them.) Since my friends are from all over, we respond with a
multitude of states. We are then prompted to orient our state based on all the
states around it, or to describe what the state is like. The first time this
happened, and my friends from Kentucky, Pennsylvania, Colorado, Ohio, and
wherever else, all listed off their surrounding states and defining
characteristics, I realized that if someone had asked me for this information about
their states, I wouldn’t have been able to answer. And on the streets and in
traveling here, I have met people from all over North and South America and the
rest of the globe, and I oftentimes have to strain to picture the chunk of
geography involving their countries. When I went to Patagonia, I met many
Israelis, and they all recognized the names of the states in the U.S. but I
didn’t know a single city besides Jerusalem. Moreover, their English was near
perfect, but I didn’t know a single phrase in Hebrew or Arabic, much less how
to read or write in those languages.
A good word to describe my experience so far here is
“humbling.” I wouldn’t consider myself to have been the stereotypical, obnoxious
“American” tourist when I arrived, and I had traveled before, but I had never
before been in the specific situations I have encountered here. I hadn’t yet
met someone from Luxembourg who can speak seven languages fluently, while I’m
struggling to master Spanish as my second language. I hadn’t yet met someone
who has climbed six of the Seven Summits, while I thought it was cool just to
hike to see Mount Aconcagua (the highest mountain in both the Americas). I
hadn’t yet met someone who has been backpacking across the globe for two
straight years, while I think living in one foreign place for half a year can
be pretty overwhelming. And I also hadn’t lived in such a large city (Greater Buenos
Aires has 13 million inhabitants), or in a place where I am an obvious
foreigner and a target of crime.
For all of these reasons, I value my time here very much,
not only as a cultural learning experience about Argentina, but also as a
learning experience about the U.S. and about the rest of the world. I think it
will be interesting to return to the U.S. with all of the new perspectives and
ideas I have gained.
