I was enjoying Injun Joe’s hilarious disruption of Porky Pig’s frontier adventure on an episode of Looney Tunes when my father first introduced me to the concept of stereotypes.   I was five.  From that point on, under the tyranny of my hippie parents, my life became a constant examination of the prejudice already present in my tiny world, from my favorite games (“Smear the Queer”), to my favorite terms of derision (“Retard”), to my favorite tattle-tailing verbs (“My brother just gyped me out of $20!).  I have been hypersensitive to labels and the harmful perceptions that accompany them ever since. 

Oh yes, this happened.

When I am on my native soil, this sensitivity most often has to do with my being a ‘mo.  I am very conscious of whether or not my actions are fulfilling or perpetuating a negative perception of gays.  Not in every situation – I don’t go to Subway thinking, “I better not order this sandwich wrong, thus tarnishing our image” – but I cringe when my less neurotic friends have loud conversations about their dyke drama and favorite positions within earshot of potentially judgmental straights.  Or, more trivially, I probably wouldn’t listen to Tegan and Sarah with the windows down if my car had a Human Rights sticker on my bumper.  It’s ridiculous, but I’m afraid of being Injun Joe.

I have done a lot of traveling in the last year and a half, and outside of the United States, my sensitivity is more focused on my nationality.  It’s hard to conceal your tourist status while abroad – your large pack, your practical shoes, your photo choices – “ha, take a picture of this sign – ‘push’ in French is ‘poussey!'” – it all gives you away.  I am not upset that I embody this stereotype because it is unavoidable.  I am more concerned that as a walking parody of an American tourist, my presence could be saying something larger about Americans in general.  During my most recent trip abroad, I felt like my poor language skills in particular spoke volumes about my country’s perceived arrogance (pun SO intended).  

Seriously though, if you had to draw an offensive cartoon depicting an arrogant American lesbian, wouldn't this basically be it?

I have now been to France three times and can confirm that the reputation of the French being rude is true to some degree.   My father also used to say, “there is a ring of truth in many stereotypes.”  However, I can confirm that the rudeness of the French can at least be partially attributed to the fact that Americans, stereotypically speaking, are terrible world citizens.  Considering our national disdain for people who don’t speak the “official” language of English at all times within our borders, Americans are awfully presumptuous about the ability and desire of non-Americans to speak our language in their countries.  I would hypothesize that maybe French people are rude to Americans because we address them expectantly in English and then act frustrated and annoyed when they don’t respond. 

I have seen American tourists use an exasperated tone when interacting with museum receptionists and lament loudly that there are no English speakers around to help them with their hotel towel needs.  Can you imagine these same Americans being casually spoken to in a foreign language at their place of work as if they should understand?  Their heads would explode. 

“Oh it was terrible, Beatrice!  I was accosted by an illegal today.  This is AMERICA.  Learn to speak ENGLISH.”

The sad thing is, a lot of Europeans actually do speak English, and often a functional level of other languages too, while many Americans know zero languages outside their native, land-‘o-freedom tongue.  Europeans have an advantage, being all up in each others’ backyards – I’d like to think if the states spoke different languages, I’d at least know Nevadan – but I was still extremely humbled while overseas by my inferiority in this regard. 

We stayed with some students while we were in Montpellier who didn’t consider themselves fluent in English with whom we carried on several deep, detailed, conversations.  I didn’t know the French word for “Me”, but these individuals, after apologizing for their “bad” English, could, for example, discuss pertinent environmental issues with a better vocabulary than many of the people I went to high school with: “I’m so sorry, I don’t know the word…how do you say…ha-bee-tat?” 

I, on the other hand, was ordering a kebab approximately one hour after arriving in France when I first realized I lacked even the most basic tools of communication.  Here are the French words I knew going into my trip: “bonjour” (Beauty and the Beast), “un, deux, trois” (I learned to count to 10 during my first visit and have since forgotten numbers 4 through 10) and “merci” (duh).  In other words, a reasonably intelligent French toddler was more likely to successfully order a kebab in Montpellier than I was.  

After I pointed to a menu item and smiled apologetically at the kebab guy, he asked me a question that I think had to do with my sauce preference.  I shrugged, offered more apologetic smiles and wished that I knew how to say something as simple as, “Red” or, “Sorry I’m a dumb American and forgot to equip myself with any language skills prior to visiting your country” (though I’m pretty sure I was communicating that wordlessly).  He gave up and tried to tell me the price, but since my kebab cost more than trois, I just continued to stare.  That’s when it hit me: the success of my interactions with the French in their country was totally dependent on their ability to speak my language.  Crap.  I’d be rude to me too.    

I know I can’t be expected to carry on a conversation in every country I visit, but that fact that it didn’t even occur to me that I might have trouble getting by without knowing the language is pretty egocentric.  And as good as my intentions are, and as respectful and groveling as I may be, being an American tourist who is unable to communicate even a little bit just exudes the stereotype of American arrogance. 

“Um, bonjour.  Um, quiche?  Yeah the big one.  Si.  I mean oi.  Tha…merci.”

Injun Joe also had poor language skills, but my stereotype status is not being forced upon me by a racist cartoonist from the 1940s.  If I ever make it back to France I’m going to study first.  I much prefer the stereotype of the guilty, culturally sensitive American liberal.

Maybe I was wrong about the French...Actually wait, what does that sign say?