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Burda 3/24/06 Comm. 375

Entschuldigung Bitte, Warum Schreien Wir? (Part 1)

As I was sipping my Beck's beer, I had no idea what to expect on my exchange trip to Germany. I had little clue how we would be treated as foreigners. I had studied German for five years, but had learned little about their culture, lifestyle, and political beliefs (aside from the history of the Third Reich). Although my hometown of Westfield, Ma. consisted mostly of life-long residents, I never recalled discriminating against others of a different race or culture. However, I always felt like an outsider in any location. I always had the problem of tying "assimilation" to being a "follower", and if there was one trait I would never give up, it would be my independence. Unfortunately, I never expected to be hated so much just for where I came from or what political figures represented my country. The next month of my life would open my eyes as to what the rest of the world thought about "Die Amerikanerin" (The Americans.)

As our eight hour flight from Washington, D.C. to Frankfurt, Germany was about to land, everyone in my exchange group was downing the courtesy Beck’s beers provided by Lufthansa. It’s cool; everyone will get to sleep it off anyway, right? Well, at least that would have been a good idea. The problem is I really don’t listen to my own advice at the right times. Perhaps such a reckless “American” attitude would not be so endearing in a foreign country. I realized that I might have to adjust my level of patience and bad habits, but there was no way I would let anyone walk over me just because I was a fish out of water.

Once we sluggishly walked off the plane, we were met with salutations and open arms by our exchange families. My exchange partner, Simone, was a sight for sore eyes; 5’8, long, flowing auburn hair, and legs that go from here to ya-ya. Unfortunately, I could not say the same for the beast that was her mother, who fit your typical German Olympic shot-putter model (She had more facial hair than I did!) Sure, maybe I’m stereotyping her, but that doesn't mean I planned on writing off her character and intelligence. We said our hellos and then took a two-hour bus ride from Frankfurt to Wörth Gymnasium, which was a central location relative to all of the host families. I made a great first impression by slobbering all over myself on the way there while half-conscious. If I only knew how much first impressions mattered to the Germans.

Once we arrived at the high school (Gymnasium is German for high school, not a facility for dodgeball or lap swimming), all the families quickly departed back to their homes. We only had a ten-minute drive back home to Hagenbach, but ten minutes in a cramped Ford Fiesta Special is practically living in a cardboard box. It sure felt as stable as a cardboard box. So with lack of sleeping the combined nine hours of flying (including the one-hour connecting flight from Bradley Airport to Dulles), a six-hour time difference, and not sleeping overall in nearly a day, it might have been a good opportunity to pass out. But this wouldn’t be that great of a story if I just listened to my own advice. Instead, I decided to be enthusiastic and join Simone in one of her Driver’s Ed class’s downtown for two hours. I felt obligated to at least make an attempt to assimilate into their youth culture.

After walking twenty minutes to the driving school (short-distance driving is considered lazy in Germany), we arrived at the classroom. It consisted of twenty eighteen-year-old Germans sitting around a big table. Maybe I’ll be kept awake by an old video of car crashes and vehicular manslaughter like the classic American 1970’s driver’s ed videos. Well, we did watch a DVD on driving, except it was a bit more PG-rated. For the next two hours (not including smoking breaks), we were instructed on how to put luggage on top of your car and drive properly once it was safely attached. This presentation was so boring that I threw my personal appearance to the wind and passed out on the table, drooling out of the corner of my mouth the last fifteen minutes. I heard snickers from some of the other German students there, overhearing a word I would come to dread during this entire trip: “Ami.” However, I can see why Americans have a plethora of SUV’s and minivans in the United States: SO WE DON’T EVER HAVE TO SUFFER THROUGH THIS VIDEO HELL!

I felt somewhat uncomfortable in this instance. Although I had some experience with this in grade school or when doing a class reading in a circle, sitting around a long table seemed very awkward. It seemed reminiscent of a business meeting, not a classroom setting. In my mind, this helped enforce the stereotype of Germans being "cold and business-like." In comparison, my driver's ed class sat in rows, with the seating being sufficient in terms of spacing, but keeping us within a few feet of each other. I suppose that I was just used to the focus being on the teacher rather than being put face-to-face with my peers and teacher.

After we got back from class, I finally followed conventional wisdom and went to sleep for six hours or so. I woke up to some delicious pepper steak. However, like most of this trip, the good comes at a price. Simone informed me that her mother only spoke German. Well, I had taken German for about five years at that point (though more like two and a half since I only paid attention half of the time), so I should have been able to get around this obstacle. I mean, it’s not like I’m expected to have intellectual conversation about the GDR or Kaiser-Wilhelm II or Die Toten Hosen, was I? Of course I was! The last American exchange student they hosted spoke fluent German by age seventeen, and had all-night political discussions with the family. However, not only was I not able to speak that fluently in German, but the political climate had changed very much since Bydlak's visit in 1998. This was significantly detrimental to me.

George W. Bush's decision to invade Iraq was a crippling blow to the United States' foreign relations with Germany. Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder stated that "80% of German voters did not support the war in Iraq" (Han'gen 1). Justice Minister Herta Daeubler-Gmelin even compared Bush's tactics in handling domestic affairs to Hitler (Han'gen 1). A Pentagon advisor even suggested that ties between the two countries would improve only if Schroeder (in 2002) decided to resign (Han'gen 1). In my opinion, the combination of most Germans being politically-knowledgeable and Bush being despised by the German government was a deadly blow to the American image. Clinton somehow managed to recapture the friendship with Germany after Reagan's dismal relationship with Gorbachev. However, would George Dubya, a man and administration that I was extremely opposed to, force me to suffer unfair stereotyping just because he was our "appointed" leader?

Before I headed to bed for the night, I politely inquired if I could log on to AOL for an hour or so, talk to a few friends and email my dad. After about thirty minutes, the computer froze up, through no fault of mine of course. Simone fooled around with it for awhile, then shut it down and said that I must have given it a virus. I think she was jumping on her conclusion mat a little too hard, but I had to give her the benefit of the doubt the first day.

I heartily welcomed the 6am wake-up knock from my housemother (note intense sarcasm here) as we ate a quick breakfast (and I find out they often leave their milk out overnight “accidentally” and therefore deprive me of any calcium intake the remaining three weeks I am there) and headed out to take the bus to school. Nothing more exhilarating than sharing a crowded city bus with children from ages five through seventeen. I’d have even preferred the Claustrophobia Car over this.

We arrived at school ten minutes later, and I followed Simone to her French class. The teacher went a mile a minute in German, as I stared at her with the look of a fool. She asked me what my father did for a job, how long I’ve spoken German, and other various things. I did an excellent job of speaking clearly when put on the spot during this trip (this bold-faced lie is brought to you today by the letter S, which stands for sarcasm). Once again, I heard whispers of Germans looking at me and snickering. The teacher asked why I spoke German so poorly after studying it for five years. She said that German students become fluent in English after only four years instruction. I considered this to be the first prevalent nail pounded into the anti-American coffin during this trip.

Later that night, the Americans and Germans joined arms in celebration at the City Hall for an asstacular reception complete with yummy pizza and Fanta for all who desired it. However, I was trapped in a closet of loneliness as Simone was with her teachers being a suck-up, and the repugnant Cora Morena (who I will discuss later, as in the next paragraph) was spreading her viral presence among my American friends. After the reception, everyone headed to the aforementioned Morona (misspelling intentional) mansion for the after-party and a skit put on by the American exchange students; awkwardness would surely ensue in the near future.

Cora Morena was my original exchange partner, whom I had hosted when the Germans came to the US in March of that year. We had spoken through email, letter, and even on the phone for the past year, getting to know each other quite well. We had exchanged pictures, so I didn’t think my appearance would be a problem (sometimes I have doubts about my dashing good looks.) When she arrived at my house, my family was beginning to crumble. My father had just been laid off because of the economic catastrophe caused by September 11th. My mother had just cheated on and left my father. To make matters worse, Cora proceeded to blow me off for most of her month’s stay and told her friends that I refused to feed her because I was poor (her parents were quite wealthy).

Did she assume that because I was American, that I would be well-off? How important was this to Germans, or even German women in particular? We had never discussed class, and the subject was taboo for me. Most of my friends were of a lower-class status, and had no interest in discussing why this was the case. Despite a wide range of economic statuses in Westfield, I never recalled class being discussed. As C. Montgomery Burns once said, "it was the best of times, it was the blurst of times."

Right off the bat I had the wonderful opportunity to meet Cora’s parents, who were at least civil to me. After some finger food and a few ApfelBiers, I threw on my Darth Vader costume to participate in the American skit directed by our fantasy guru/crazy lady chaperone Martha “The Stink” Sinkewicz. This awfully-scripted scene consisted of Star Trek, Star Wars, and Planet of the Apes references, all making little sense. That's all the American exchange students needed, more pop culture stereotypes. On the ride home, I discovered that Simone and her family (especially her brother who had just arrived back home from the military) hated Cora and her family with a passion. Was this because they are upper-class?

The weekend had begun, and I finally was able to meet Simone’s friends. We headed over to Neuberg and watched her friend Gregor try on Lederhosen (think suspenders and high-water, tight-fitting pants), along with watching some illegally-downloaded American movies in German. This would mark the first altercation between Simone and me. While we were picking small rotten apples off the tree in her friend Jonas’ yard, I threw one aiming for Gregor, but accidentally hit Simone square in the face. Katharina, Gregor, Jonas, and I all found it funny, but she did not. As I finished the excellent homemade macaroni salad that night, I could feel the icy stare from Simone freezing the blood in my veins. Did Simone's inability to brush this incident off her shoulder show that she was a typical German who lacked a sense of humor?

I was able to take a break from the worries of rising animosity between myself and Simone and her family when the Americans and I took a day trip to Strassbourg, France, which was on the border of southern Germany. The tour was led by Simone’s Advanced French teacher (not the same one who put me on the spot the first day), Moussier Imbert. The day started off with a bang when I tried to order in German at the French restaurant (we WERE on the border of Germany), and the waitress gave me a disgusted look. We got our food an hour later, with my pizza tasting like garbage and my strawberry milkshake tasting like Pepto-Bismol. We toured a cathedral and some other historical sites, but the drama started to build around 1pm.

Miscommunication and class barriers put a serious damper on my afternoon. I ventured off during our free time to get an ice cream cone from a street vendor. While patiently waiting in line, I felt a tug on my one-liter bottle of Sprite. I turned around in horror to find a gypsy girl and her crippled little brother Raoul! They start speaking in tongues while trying to snatch my Sprite away, and for the only time on this trip, I follow my instincts and get the hell out of there as fast as possible. It is sad that fear was my first reaction to two homeless children trying to steal my soda. Lack of communication should not have struck fear in my heart (I can thank the Bush administration for partially brainwashing that idea into me). The misery continued when I tried to offer my bland salami sandwich to a street bum, and was handily rejected. Adam informed me of “the bum code”, which says that a bum cannot accept food offered to him, but only can acquire food left in the trash. This myth became a reality when Big Andy, another American comrade of mine, tossed his half-eaten ice cream cone in the trash, and the same bum scrambled to the wastebasket to retrieve the said cone. Now I had to deal with cultural codes of the homeless!?! The real cherry on top of this awful French Sunday was when Moussier Imbert asked me what I enjoyed most about France.

“France sucks.”

“What!? FRANCE SUCKS!? FUCK YOU ASSHOLE!!! YOU AMERICANS CAN'T APPRECIATE ANYTHING CAN YOU?”

The drama continued the next day when Meghan, another U.S. peer of mine, and I took a day trip to a German tire factory for job-shadowing. My HausMutter (housemother) got lost and took an hour to get to the factory when we were a mere three-hundred feet from the place. She freaked out Meghan by constantly making nonsensical conversation (as in we literally had no idea what she was talking about, but understood her words.)

When we got to the factory, we were supposed to shadow supervisor Herr Rudolf, but when we informed him that we were not fluent in German, he called up many people in the factory looking for English speakers. When he could not find anyone competent in English, he ripped the phone out of the wall and threw it across the room. Finally, a Turkish fellow gave us a tour of the factory in broken English, with the highlight being the Playboy calendar in the break room. He took us to the President of the company’s office and left us there alone for an hour. Meghan broke the not-so-obvious news to me that all the other German exchange students hated Simone, that she was a whore, and a teacher’s pet. Knowing that no one enjoyed Simone's company pretty much prevented me from seeing anyone else in the exchange throughout the entire three weeks.

Now it was at the point where I was being judged solely on my partner's image. I felt like I had been stripped of any chance to make new friends just because my partner was incapable of fitting in among her own peers. I had never encountered a problem like this in Westfield. I was never judged by who my friends were, just who I was. The problem here was that Simone wasn't even my friend! I felt royally screwed that I would likely be held back because of something entirely out of my hands. If the other German exchange partners were not going to interact with me because they hated Simone, what was I supposed to think of their quick passing of judgment on me?

An Austrian worker came in and took us around the factory again, but at least spoke fluent English. After taking us to another break room, he began to rant about how much better Germany is than the United States.

“In the US, stupid American kids who fail high school work at McDonald’s. Here they work in factory with good job and benefit! Security! Wage! Your American government is corrupt, and only caters to the rich, not the working-class, not blue-collar! Both of you are boorish Americans just like Bush! WIR SIND DIE BESTEN IN ALLEM DEM WELT! FÜRCHT DIE BELEIDIGUNG AB DEUTSCHLAND! SICH HEIL!” (Let's just say he was appreciative of old Nazi slogans.)

That was interesting to say the least. Anyway, we left around noon and got back to the school at 1pm, just in time to be picked up by our host parents. While waiting for “The Beast”, Simone was talking to one of her friend’s mothers, when she said the infamous words:

“Er spricht KEIN Deutsch!”

“Entschuldigung, was hast du gesagt?”

“YOU KNOW NOTHING!”

This was only the beginning of the end.

To be continued...