The A Word

American Cheese and Other Offenses

It’s weird. Being back in America again.

For one thing, they don’t call it “America” over in Europe. It’s bad form. They call it “the U.S.”

When in Europe, to call your mother country “America” is considered egotistical and disrespectful to other North Americans, Central Americans, South Americans, as well as Puerto Ricans, people from the Virgin Islands, and people from Guam, who all sort of consider themselves “Americans,” too.

Although I’ve never heard any South American friend refer to himself or herself in this way. They always say, “I’m Colombiano,” or “Argentino,” or “I’m a Peruano.” If you were to call a Central American an “American,” they’d laugh and then spike your food with ceremonial death chiles.

Still, modern decorum dictates that you’re not supposed to say “America.” It’s considered rude, and sort of low rent.

Sorry, those are the rules.

After all, Mexicans are also from North America, along with Canadians. But again, I’ve never once heard a self-respecting Canadian refer to themselves as “North American.” Neither do Mexicanos refer to themselves as North Americans. In fact, “Norteamericano” is a Mexican term reserved for persons from the United States.

So anyway, this modern vocab issue was a problem for me the very first time I visited Europe. I kept responding to people’s questions of my origin by replying, “I’m from America.”

And they’d look at me like I had just mowed down the Sistine Chapel with a Sherman tank. By modern political correctness standards, I was an uneducated little puke.

“It’s called the U.S.,” I was quickly informed by Europeans.

Except, wait. No. I’m mistaken. They’re NOT called “Europeans.”

Erroneously, I assumed that people from Europe must follow the same dialectal rules we Americanos are expected to follow. So I began referring to European Union citizens as being from the E.U. I did this exactly once, and a Frenchman quickly gave me a dressing down.

“I am not FROM the European Union, monsieur,” he said with a piteous laugh. “I am French because my country is named France.”

“And I am from Italy,” added another woman nearby. “Therefore I am Italian.”

“So what does that make me?” I asked.

They shrugged and went back to smoking cigarettes.

So, later that night I did some research in my hotel. According to the internet, I discovered the correct term was “One who is from the U.S.” Or in some cases: “United-Statesean.” This is considered politically correct language. Even in the States, it is more acceptable to use this terminology.

This means we must update many of our classic song titles, such as the classroom melodies, “United States the Beautiful,” “My United States ‘Tis of Thee,” and “Bye, Bye, Miss United States Pie.” George Gershwin’s tune needs to be renamed to “A United-Statesean in Paris.” So does Grand Funk Railroad’s timeless anthem to rock and roll, “We’re a United-Statesean Band.”

Even so, I caught on very quickly in Europe. When I ordered a diluted espresso, I would merely ask for “watered-down espresso.” The baristas would all look at me funny and reply, “You mean a café Americano?”

“Shame on you,” I would respond.

And at one restaurant they advertised a sandwich with “American cheese.” I called the chef and asked him to alter his menu to be more inclusive to Canadians.

Once, while walking the streets of some foreign country, I heard Tom Petty’s “American Girl” blasting through the radio of a local shop. I was offended. I walked inside and asked them to change the station, since this song wasn’t fair to Puerto Ricans.

But then, one day in a small French town, I had a conversation with a Frenchwoman shopkeeper. She was elderly and gray, and old enough to remember World War II, when Allied soldiers liberated her country.

She was a little girl living in Paris at the time. Her father had been brutally murdered during the war, and her mother had been taken captive by German mercenaries. After France was liberated by U.S. troops, a large victory parade took place on the streets of Paris wherein soldiers walked alongside French citizens in celebration. She remembered that parade in detail. As though it were yesterday.

“There was so much cheering it hurt your ears,” she said. “We were so happy to be free.”

The French people showered U.S. soldiers with gifts and confetti and falling food. Baguettes fell from the sky. So did money. And—seriously—women’s underwear.

Young women kissed U.S. soldiers marching by, seemingly at random. Old Frenchwomen embraced passing sergeants and wept into their uniforms with gratitude. Old Frenchmen shook the hands of teenage buck privates with tears in their ancient eyes and said “God bless you” in broken English.

My grandfathers and forebears were among those gallant and battered soldiers who fought such a terrible and costly war. Maybe yours were too.

The old Frenchwoman telling me this story was actually weeping as she spoke. She wiped her eyes, then took my hand.

“Let them call you whatever they wish,” she said. “But to me, ‘American’ will always be a beautiful word.”

Anyway, it’s good to be home.