An American Can't Win, He Can't

By MONROE WHITNEY*

T-AN American--have lived in Britain for the jpast eighteen years, and much of that time has

been spent in the shadow of an Anglo-American volcano. Perhaps this is because my personality consists of those eruptive ingredients which make me sensitive to the slightest international tremors.

But until this or some reason has been estab- lished, I must blame the British for much of my agitation. Not that I do not like these stout- hearted people, mind you. They arc among my best friends and, Deo volente, I plan to remain with them for another eighteen years. If during my stay, I can win for my countrymen the appro- bation of a few Britons by my words, thoughts, acts or deeds, 1 shall feel that I have not lived in this green and pleasant land in vain.

But lest I seem too unfair to the British, I must first confess that my wife and I did receive some acknowledgment for service done. It was shortly after the war, and we were staying at an isolated hotel on the Dorset coast. The only other building nearby was a general store run by a spirited old lady, who claimed that she

could smell Americans before they 'entered her premises.' Unaware of her keen nasal faculty, we

approached her domain, armed with our ration

books. These proved of little avail. 'Ain't got no provisions for foreigners,' were her first words

of greeting. Then in explanation: 'You Ameri- cans are responsible for most of this rationing, especially my tea. Your soldiers come over here, have good tea for the first time in their lives, and now they got everyone in America drinking it. That's where it's all going.'

Instead of emphatically denying such a pre- posterous assumption, my wife tried a bit of flattery : 'Of course no one in the world can make tea like you English.'

'Well, you ain't getting none here,' she snapped.

The next morning, in an attempt to smooth things over (my wife worked overtime in Anglo- American understanding), she approached the

country's enemy with a most magnanimous pro- position. She offered her all our tea coupons for a few measly pieces of chocolate. When this bargain was finally consummated, we received a few reluctant crumbs of gratitude : 'You're the first Americans who's willing to pay some of your debt to England.'

Despite her nasal claims, today I think I could fool the old so-and-so- -at least long enough to

get a whiff of her precious tea. In sixteen years my voice has lost much cif its twanginess (I con- fess this to myself alone), and I have adopted many English pronunciations and expressions.

When I visit my native soil, my countrymen chuckle over 'bean' for been, 'dark' for clerk, and 'wroth' for wrath. I even find myself de- scribing the latest American gadget as 'jolly good.' Because of this mid-Atlantic speech,

which is getting even closer to the English shore, few Britons detect readily that I am from the United States. When I tell them that I am only one step removed from the American Indian, an incredulous smile creeps' into their face, and become the recipient of one of the greatest com- pliments an Englishman can bestow upon an

American : 'But you really don't speak like one.'

Sometimes I retort by telling my would-be flat- terers what that truly great Anglo-American, Alistair Cooke, has to say on the difference in speech: 'A Briton believes that an American was born speaking English and was then trans- ferred to the Bronx; an American believes that

an Englishman was born speaking American but was put on stilts at an early age.' The British think this is jolly good, especially the last part which leaves them in an elevated position.

Coming over on the ferry from Calais to Dover last ,summer, I was having a casual conversa- tion with a proper English lady who obviously did not detect my nationality. Soon she called my attention to 'an obnoxious young man' whose feathered hat and sawn-off trousers indicated a Swiss holiday. He was chewing gum and trying in a most unbecoming way, I must admit, to attract the attention of a pretty girl passenger. 'A disgusting American,' my travelling com- panion commented, and pretended to look the other way.

Later I had a few words with the young man under discussion and discovered he was from Manchester, England. Hurrying back to the proper English lady, I told her gleefully what I had found out. 'But that's worse still,' she ex- claimed. 'Those vulgar American habits are in- fecting our youth.'

Perhaps at times I am too much of a mission- ary and too little of an ambassador. This usually happens at cocktail parties when, American fashion, I comment (favourably) to most of the ladies present on their hats or some other worthy attribute. Unused to this open flattery, most English ladies shyly withdraw. If their husbands are standing with them, which isn't usually the case, their eyes shoot daggers.

I was at such a party where the men were earnestly discussing rugby internationals on one side of the room while the ladies were tittering away in an opposite corner. Feeling that a little American co-education was in order, I suggested to the men that they mingle with the fairer sex.

In return I received a most illuminating edu- cation on the matriarchy that is America. If I wanted to remain in a healthy state, I wasn't to introduce any such ideas in this country. Now I was mid-room, rejected by my own sex and afraid to join the other.

My wife, who was a diplomate extraordinaire, concluded that the best approach to any Anglo- American misunderstanding was to show quietly how views differed on the two sides of the Atlantic. In a 400-year-old Devon farmhouse she had a chance to show her skill. After dinner our hostess, a delightful lady of the old school, felt she must tell us about the ghost which prowled around at midnight. When she was in the midst of its various appearances, she suddenly turned to my wife : 'You do believe in ghosts, don't you, my dear?' How could my wife get around this one, I thought as the seconds became hours. But she did and in true transatlantic style. 'Yes,

when I'm living in England, I do believe in ghosts,'-she said thoughtfully; 'but when I'm in the United States, I don't think I do. I don't think America is old enough to have ghosts.'

'Forgive me, child,' our hostess smiled indul- gently, 'I should have remembered what a young country you have.'

Even when 1 resort to anything as basic as personal experience I cannot win. I have lived

in many parts of the United States—including Chicago—without witnessing a shooting; prac- tically all my friends are happily married; and

* American Master at Fettes College. I knew no one who committed suicide. But what can all this avail against a people who know how many persons were shot in New York City in 1962; what percentage of marriages end in the divorce courts; and the number of nervous break- downs caused by trying to compete with the fabulous Joneses?