Homo Americanus

Homo Americanus represents the silent, and invisible, majority. He has a notion of strife: he works hard for the money to feed his family and to fund his debt, but these are the limits of his horizons. Nine-to-fiving for the Man, this beige individual is probably intelligent enough to know that his existence is meaningless. To be a cog in the economy barely works as an identity when the machine is well-oiled. In rustier times, its vacuity is alarmingly apparent.

The self-aware variety is depressive and anxious, possibly angry (but restrained), and clings to the system, for he feels powerless to move within it, let alone effect change. The denial variety has a larger debt, for he fills his desolation with stuff. Cars, gadgets, bits and bobs – anything to inject some distraction into the day-to-day – that he can compare with the stuff belonging to others of his species (whom he calls ‘friends’). He drinks beer with these associates, grills, and goes to football and baseball. If he’s a bit higher up the tree, he’ll play golf, but only because one should.

A picture, for provocation's sake

Homo Americanus knows that something is wrong, but cannot exactly express what. He feels unrepresented by politicians, if not betrayed by them, and does not exactly know what America is fighting for (on various fronts). He is intrinsically patriotic, but is torn between an unquestioning allegiance and his nagging doubt. And still he works, and still he pays down his debt. Homo Americanus is inert. He is a quiet voice, getting on with things, such as they are. He despises American Macho, and anonymously posts comments on web forums about the obesity problem. He recognises, but does not know how to be, American Manly.

Sweet Interlude

I shall be writing in the next week, but I cannot guarantee to be posting. For the first time in fifteen years I shall be returning to my holiday stomping grounds in beautiful Cornwall, and in a way I shall be sorely disappointed if there are such modern contrivances as the internet. After the activities of recent months, a week’s repose is going to seem strange indeed. Cornish ale, ice cream and pasties are to be consumed, as well as an inordinate amount of local fish. I hope it will be a good old-fashioned change of air, and a chance to take stock.

Over the years I have wondered what to do with boyish memories, hankerings and nostalgia. Whether your childhood was good, bad, or indifferent, it is doubtless good to reflect from time to time. Part of manhood is the knowledge of how it differs from boyhood, and theoretical musings are useless without some introspection. How did I get here from there? I was reminded of the importance of a realistic approach through facebook, of all things. Discovering the grown-up shadows of youthful faces from the past, replete with biographies of maturation, joy and lament, really altered my impressions of what happened all those years ago. There was a coming-to-terms moment; a sense of distance travelled and demons diminished.

I anticipate the coming week to be something similar, but in reverse. I can visualise my own tiny footprints in the sand, the thickness of summer air, and the exuberant innocence of childhood. Probably most of us had a juvenile paradise, removed from our ordinary world and utterly joyful. In memory, the sun always shone. No doubt my revisit will come with realities not formerly noticed: cloudy days and costly diversions. A week will seem like seven days and not an eternity, and I shall probably not be satisfied to spend the days variously playing beach cricket, jumping breakers, and foraging in rock pools. Contemplating the sea as a child, my mind travelled to America – an impossibly distant and enchanting idea – and the world was just wonder. Having come back from that unfeasibly close and disappointingly familiar place, to where will my mind go now?

I will settle for a little peace. In case I cannot communicate in the meantime, I wish for you the same.

American Macho

I begin my wholly ill-considered project of laying-out a cultural typology of men, the fit and the misfits alike, with the least palatable of subjects. Those of you who have been following along may already have inferred that there is a kind of American masculinity that is not to my taste. A more noble image will follow, I assure you, but there is no getting away from the ugliness that is, for want of a better description, American Macho.

American Macho carries his abundant girth like a badge of honour, and is clad in overlong chinos, a baseball cap and running shoes (never used for their express purpose). He may have biceps of considerable proportions, because fitness can be reduced to the power of the arm. He shouts before thinking, but perhaps never thinks. He is the one bawling ‘You’re the man!’ at golf tournaments and letting off falsetto whoops at concerts, and he will be seen giving standing ovations for mediocrities, if not everything. He thanks God, publicly, when he wins a bowling tournament, or an eating contest, for this is God’s purview. American Macho is highly opinionated about all matters, but utterly uninformed; yet he will never concede a point. He has never travelled, and possibly does not have a passport; yet he claims to know how the world should best be run. He knows to the very fibre of his being that America is the best country on the planet, but he does not know why (for he knows no history, and has not been out of his own State). He will, nevertheless, fight you on this point. His politics are staunch, this way or that, but can be expressed only in the same terms as his love for his favourite baseball team. American Macho does not know how to cope with America’s new reality, and cannot see past his own back yard. American Macho blindly worships the flag, the greenback and the American way of life (which he defines as the freedom to be self-interested). American Macho is all these things, but he is also simply a jerk.

There, it is said. I suppose the image will please no one; it certainly does not please me. I propose no remedies for American Macho, for his antidote is American Manly, and we may trust that American Manly will prevail. But first we must describe the American man who sits between the two, and perhaps comprises the majority type. I shall return, therefore, with what will doubtless be an equally controversial description of Homo Americanus.

Inside Out/Outside In

After yesterday’s stilted beginnings, yours truly is getting back into the swing of things. Afternoon tea at Fortnum & Mason, a perambulation down Jermyn St., a new pair of wingtip brogues, a warm beer or two in a Mayfair establishment, and it feels as though I’m hitting my stride. I’m still somewhat surprised to be experiencing culture shock in my native land, but this, I suppose, is what happens when one returns from grazing in adjacent pastures.

One of the things about being a foreigner everywhere is the curious way in which I perceive strangers. Being always a semi-insider, always a semi-outsider, the respective openness or guardedness of this society and that become readily apparent. I am an unintentional anthropologist, making my way by trying to understand. In Britain, despite the stiff stereotypes disseminated abroad, strangers are perfectly willing to communicate. Chatting at the bar, making eye contact, sharing a joke: of course, it’s all a way of defusing the tension – the rage that simmers close to the surface – in a bid to let everyone know that things are under control. For now. Sharing a space this evening with a few parties of rich Arabs and Indians, with their pernickety drink demands (Grey Goose and lemonade, Black Label and soda, Corona with lime on the side, etc.), the proprietor identified me as ‘in’, and bemoaned ‘some people and their bizarre orders’. He was flustered, looking for sympathy, hoping for patience. He was also servile, not much of a man’s man, but trying hard to please. In his eyes I saw lamentation. He remembered when a pub was a pub; when men drank beer; and when landlords garnered a form of respect in their own manor.

Over the past few weeks, in my involuntary silence, I’ve been pursuing thoughts along these lines. How do I perceive men in their native environments, in their native lands, and how do they differ from place to place? How does emasculation occur here and there? What counts as manly for an American, for an Italian, for a Brit, for a Canadian, for a German? What counts as unmanly? I have only the mental field notes of an amateur observer, but I propose to offer in the coming period a few sketches – a typology, if you will – of men. No doubt I shall paint in grotesque strokes, but I plan to present the portraits as unfinished, to be augmented by your contributions and criticisms. Somewhere in the mess, there will be truth. That’s where it usually is.

British Humour

A man walked into a bar and ordered a pint of bitter, a G&T and a sticky toffee pudding. ‘It’ll be a twenty-minute wait on the food’, said the barman, ‘do you still want it?’. The man said ‘yes’. Pouring the gin, the barman realised he was out of ice and sent his barmaid to fetch more, telling the man he’d have to wait for his drinks too. Meanwhile, a second man had walked into the bar, followed by a third, followed by a woman. The lack of ice having caused the barman to lose his cool, he knew not in which order the customers came. The third man, being drunk but sensible, suggested the lady be served first. The lady ordered fish and chips and two large glasses of pinot grigio. The ice had not yet arrived. ‘Who’s next?’ asked the barman. ‘It must be me’, said the third man, ‘since I just let her go before me’. Faultless logic, no doubt, for the third man. But the second man took exception. ‘I’ve been waiting bloody ages’, he said. Regardless, the third man was served next, during which time the ice arrived. The second man, thinking he was sure to be next, was disappointed to discover that the man, patiently waiting and observing, could now have his original order filled. ‘Still want that sticky toffee pudding?’ asked the barman. ‘Yes please’, said the man. ‘This is getting beyond a joke’, said the second man. The barman apologised, but pointed out that the man had been waiting for his ice. During the distraction, the returning barmaid decided to serve an American man, lately arrived, who couldn’t quite decide what he wanted, but settled on a glass of water. The second man pointed and loudly observed, ‘Well, I know I was before this geezer!’. On another level entirely, the barman and barmaid were in disarray that erroneous orders had inadvertently been transmitted to the kitchen, wherein the chef was preparing food for nobody in particular, causing the twenty-minute delay for sticky toffee puddings. Apparently the computer printouts were unintelligible, and nobody could think of a better way to communicate orders between front of house and rear: all of twenty yards. The barman, by now heavily sweating, concluded the transaction with the man, telling him he was owed £8.50 change, but handing him only £3.50. Turning to the white-knuckled second man to take his order, the barman was interrupted by the man, who informed him that he had been short-changed a fiver. The second man walked around in circles, fuming. The barman did not apologise to the man, but rather slapped the £5 note into the man’s hands and slammed shut the till. Everybody went away to their respective darkened corners and to the waspish beer garden. And the man thought, ‘this is indeed beyond a joke’.

The pub into which the man walked. The pudding was good.

I’ll be in Blighty for the month. I hope to share my thoughts more regularly than of late, old-world irritations permitting.