Much like its phonetic cousin smog, smug is something for which I have little tolerance and is far too abundant. However, I must confess that I find myself guilty of smugness far too regularly.
In accordance with the title of the blog, I am writing this entry from a sidewalk cafe (the same cafe mentioned in an earlier post in fact), and by all accounts it is a veritable breeding ground for smug. The baristas serve organic, fair trade coffees at exorbitant prices, the furniture and overall decor is minimalist and sleek and soft classical music radiates from recessed speakers.
It's the music that really pushes me over the edge. After ordering my usual hot chocolate, I sit down, plug in my laptop, and begin to study (or in this case blog, but generally I'm here for academic purposes). As I get into a groove, fueled by the sugar and ambient noise, my sense of hearing begins to feel neglected. Soon the notes wafting from the ceiling begin to worm their way into my head, and slowly I begin to recognize each piece.
Revelling in my own brilliance, I begin a pretentious game with myself, challenging myself to name each selection. "Bach's Concerto in D Minor for two violins and a piano", "Vivaldi's violin Concerto in A Minor", "Holt's Ostenato from the St. Paul's Suite". This go on for some time before I realize with horror that I have entered the stages of some monstrous Dr. Jackyll/Mr. Hyde transformation.
The keys stop clicking. I look around, take a deep breath and assess the situation in my mind. "You're a liberal American Jew who's parents own a hybrid car with an Obama/Biden '08 sticker and you are sitting in a coffee shop in a major francophone city blogging to classical music." The reality of my situation hits me hard, forcing me to come face to face with what I have become, something I so often ridicule but am now forced to accept as my own identity.
I guess this really is just the outcome of a self fulfilling prophecy. Having not-so-jokingly referred to myself as a liberal elitist on multiple occasions, it was only a matter of time before my metamorphosis became complete. Now the question remains, how do I move forward from such a life altering discovery? Does my insistence on using only 25 year aged balsamic vinegar from Modena require immediate medical attention? Is my firm belief in sexual equality among people of different genders and sexualities life threatening? Is my die hard support for Ohio congressman Dennis Kucinich's 2008 presidential campaign a sign of disconnection from real America and an infirm grounding in reality?
No. Through a combination of self reflection and common sense I have discovered that none of the above symptoms make me un-American, nor thankfully are they carcinogenic. The fact is that a liberal American Jew is just that, an American. To be honest that is really the only label to which I like to attach myself.
Being smug might make you a bit of a know-it-all, but never let your intellectual prowess incur denegration, nor your cultural tastes discrimination. Be secure in the knowledge that you are who you choose to be, not what others label you.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Were I forced to pick one adjective that best represented me, it would undoubtedly be francophile. From having attended and worked at a French immersion summer camp to four years of high school French to being a French major, the language comprises an integral part of my personality and the person I am as of now (though that is certainly liable to change).
I don't know exactly what it is that attracts me to the language and the rich cultural and particularly gastronomic history that comes with it. My Irish-Ukrainian heritage and American background does not necessarily lend itself to a predisposition towards anything francophone. I'm guessing it was a combination of my family influence and a desire to live up to every liberal elitist stereotype that drove me towards the language of Rousseau and Voltaire.
Given my immense interest in French you can imagine the overwhelming sense of joy I experienced upon learning of my acceptance to a major university in Montreal. My ill disguised excitement led me to tell anyone who would listen about the innumerable opportunities for conversing with locals in the native tongue and exploring the Old City, never at a loss for something to do. Along with mildly annoying many of my friends and relatives, I was also deceiving myself.
When I arrived in Montreal to begin my studies my head was buzzing with cliched images of me strolling along a cobble stoned street clutching a freshly baked baguette and stopping every now and then to talk with the locals about the highly charged political atmosphere, or the merits of a good cassoulet. What I discovered instead was that I may as well have strapped on a beer gut and put on a t-shirt saying "These Colors Don't Run", for the moment I opened my mouth to speak my American accented French announced to everyone within earshot that I was clearly incapable of communicating in anything short of simplified English.
Embarassed and intimidated by the ease with which shopkeepers, bellmen, janitors and the homeless switched from French to English, I reverted back to my mother tongue. I went to bed my first night feeling slightly defeated. How was I supposed to practice my French in a city where it makes no difference to people whether you speak French or English (this of course being a slight exagerration, I have since encountered a number of people for whom English is clearly a struggle)? I decided to put it from my mind, and continue introducing myself in French, then reverting to English when my accent was detected.
However, once I began to settle into my normal class schedule and became familiar with city (an ongoing process I might add, on both counts), the fact that my French was receiving less action than the Pope began to wear on me. Finally the answer I was searching for came to me. Having overheard several of my floormates conversing with the cafeteria staff in French, I threw my hat into the ring and introduced myself. I struck up a conversation with the Haitian woman running the sandwhich counter, and confessed to her my insecurities about speaking French in a city where nearly everyone is bilingual. What she told me was the single best piece of advice I have received since I moved to the city.
She told me to be insistent with my French and be fearless of blunders. "You must make mistakes to learn" she told me. I knew she was right, and it was a refrain I had heard a million times over, generally from exaperated teachers striving to explain their students' poor performance, but her follow up is what really caught my attention. "Tell them, 'No. I will not speak English. I moved hear to speak French.' Be agressive.'" I took her at her word and the next day put her plan into action.
At first, the woman at the coffee shop was unyielding. "So you'd like a large chai latte? Where are you sitting? I'll birng it over." "Je m'assieds juste la." I responded, gesturing towards my seat by a potted fern. "Okay, it'll be just a few minutes." Though I knew she was trying to be polite in accomodating my mother tongue, the unspoken battle beneath the niceties was reaching a boiling point. Each of us was adament in our chosen method of communication, unwilling to budge. It was as if the partisan congressional gridlock from back home had manifested itself in this unassuming Montreal cafe. I held my ground. Finally, success. "Voila ton latte monsieur. Avez-vous besoin d'autre chose?" "Non, je suis bien maintenant, merci!"
This conversation remains the zenith of my francophone exploits, and all at once I fully understood what the woman behind the sandwhich counter meant. It is a mantra by which I plan to abide for the duration of my stay, and will hopefully lead to the realization of my cliched Franco-Canadian fantasies. Half of getting what you want is knowing when to make people feel uncomfortable.
I don't know exactly what it is that attracts me to the language and the rich cultural and particularly gastronomic history that comes with it. My Irish-Ukrainian heritage and American background does not necessarily lend itself to a predisposition towards anything francophone. I'm guessing it was a combination of my family influence and a desire to live up to every liberal elitist stereotype that drove me towards the language of Rousseau and Voltaire.
Given my immense interest in French you can imagine the overwhelming sense of joy I experienced upon learning of my acceptance to a major university in Montreal. My ill disguised excitement led me to tell anyone who would listen about the innumerable opportunities for conversing with locals in the native tongue and exploring the Old City, never at a loss for something to do. Along with mildly annoying many of my friends and relatives, I was also deceiving myself.
When I arrived in Montreal to begin my studies my head was buzzing with cliched images of me strolling along a cobble stoned street clutching a freshly baked baguette and stopping every now and then to talk with the locals about the highly charged political atmosphere, or the merits of a good cassoulet. What I discovered instead was that I may as well have strapped on a beer gut and put on a t-shirt saying "These Colors Don't Run", for the moment I opened my mouth to speak my American accented French announced to everyone within earshot that I was clearly incapable of communicating in anything short of simplified English.
Embarassed and intimidated by the ease with which shopkeepers, bellmen, janitors and the homeless switched from French to English, I reverted back to my mother tongue. I went to bed my first night feeling slightly defeated. How was I supposed to practice my French in a city where it makes no difference to people whether you speak French or English (this of course being a slight exagerration, I have since encountered a number of people for whom English is clearly a struggle)? I decided to put it from my mind, and continue introducing myself in French, then reverting to English when my accent was detected.
However, once I began to settle into my normal class schedule and became familiar with city (an ongoing process I might add, on both counts), the fact that my French was receiving less action than the Pope began to wear on me. Finally the answer I was searching for came to me. Having overheard several of my floormates conversing with the cafeteria staff in French, I threw my hat into the ring and introduced myself. I struck up a conversation with the Haitian woman running the sandwhich counter, and confessed to her my insecurities about speaking French in a city where nearly everyone is bilingual. What she told me was the single best piece of advice I have received since I moved to the city.
She told me to be insistent with my French and be fearless of blunders. "You must make mistakes to learn" she told me. I knew she was right, and it was a refrain I had heard a million times over, generally from exaperated teachers striving to explain their students' poor performance, but her follow up is what really caught my attention. "Tell them, 'No. I will not speak English. I moved hear to speak French.' Be agressive.'" I took her at her word and the next day put her plan into action.
At first, the woman at the coffee shop was unyielding. "So you'd like a large chai latte? Where are you sitting? I'll birng it over." "Je m'assieds juste la." I responded, gesturing towards my seat by a potted fern. "Okay, it'll be just a few minutes." Though I knew she was trying to be polite in accomodating my mother tongue, the unspoken battle beneath the niceties was reaching a boiling point. Each of us was adament in our chosen method of communication, unwilling to budge. It was as if the partisan congressional gridlock from back home had manifested itself in this unassuming Montreal cafe. I held my ground. Finally, success. "Voila ton latte monsieur. Avez-vous besoin d'autre chose?" "Non, je suis bien maintenant, merci!"
This conversation remains the zenith of my francophone exploits, and all at once I fully understood what the woman behind the sandwhich counter meant. It is a mantra by which I plan to abide for the duration of my stay, and will hopefully lead to the realization of my cliched Franco-Canadian fantasies. Half of getting what you want is knowing when to make people feel uncomfortable.
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