Damien Galeone

Servant to Two Masters

It is the testing period at the university, and though I’m enjoying the (Disney-esque) orgasmic joy of extra sleep and no teaching, there are drawbacks. One is that I am saddled with tasks: BS administration, syllabus design, planning, testing, and making tests.

In my case, that is a listening test for students who want to study abroad. Not only do I have to come up with the questions, I also have to provide (read: create) the content. So I often bribe my British colleague Jack by promising to sit in as his assessor during oral exams in June. It’s a trade-off that is deemed equal in terms of effort and painful awkwardness.

So earlier, Jack and I headed up to the recording studio in our school’s media department and recorded a mock interview of two people who want to study abroad. From that recording I will now create a listening test.

During the process of recording we are both awkward and uncomfortable. We sigh and roll our eyes. The only difference between his discomfort and mine is that he can walk away and drink a cup of tea and I have to listen to our interview and create the task questions.

And to do that I have to listen to my own, stupid voice through earphones so as to magnify each horrible, Northeast-accented syllable, each of my stuttered “uhs,” every lip smack, and on top of it all, my voice.

Over, and over, and over again.

Any other brand of torture has been outlawed by the Geneva Convention.

As momentary relief, I go to the internet and type in the first words I think of into a Google search engine.

Who hates hearing their own voice on tape

The answer: British People. Bigtime. And, what’s more, there’s a list about other stuff that British people hate! Oh goodie. So I read and procrastinate. However, I also spend the next twenty minutes in dawning horror, realizing just how British I have become.

Now, like many Americans, I spent years in naïve awe of the British. I loved the accents, the turns of phrase, the reserved behavior, the perceived intelligence.

And like most Americans who have come into contact with a great deal of Brits, I realized that awe was a giant sack of horse tits. The Brits are indirect, awkward, and touchy. To have a cross interaction with a Brit (which, by the by, will go completely unnoticed by any other nationality) means a years-long slow-cooking build-up of one-sided loathing and detest. This, of course, is all done with an outwardly (though reserved) pleasant demeanor until the Brit finally explodes one day and leaves the room with a huff. Then the Brit apologizes. And the American has no idea what has happened.

I was comfortable with this mindset, until I recently learned how British I was. Before seeing this list, I knew there was a problem. Sort of the way you know there’s a problem long before going to the doctor. This issue manifested itself in a number of ways. First off, for a long while I have been watching, understanding, and laughing at British television. Scenes in British TV shows or movies that I would have squinted at before, now make me belly laugh.

As a result of or because of that, I am, while not fluent in British English, sitting at a comfortable B2 level (upper intermediate). This is more in terms of my understanding as opposed to my spoken language. I now have a solid handle on what British people really mean when they say the things they say. Examples include the following:

British: You should stop by for dinner sometime. Translation: Don’t come near me or my house.

British: We shouldn’t worry about coordinating every aspect of our courses. Translation: Get on with your own course and leave me the fuck alone! 

British: Yes, well, I’ll try and find time when I can do that. Translation: I have absolutely no intention whatsoever of doing that or anything that minutely resembles that.

British: Well, I could possibly, I suppose. Translation: No.

Third, I am a longtime user of the Oxford Comma.

I know. I know. I’m in trouble.

Here are some things that make me fundamentally British.

I am bad at being in public. I hate eye contact with strangers; I always wonder what it is they want or if I have something on my lip. This is exacerbated by the fact that the Czechs just adore staring at people. I blame my adherence to this British characteristic on years of deflecting the blatant ogling of the Czech.

Other public tragedies include the nightmare that is door management. When I walk up to a door I look around, analyse, and decide whether I am going to hold it open for someone or have it held open for me. If the latter, I almost trip into the person, and sometimes just run away and hide. If I make the decision to hold it for someone, invariably, in my eagerness, I rudely cut them off or hold the door for someone very far away, and while I am freezing the people inside I steady myself because I have made a commitment that I can’t pull out of.

Last week I pulled open a door for an old woman not realizing she was using it as the left hand counterpart to the cane she had in her right hand.

I can never go back to that store.

As it’s test taking period this means that my colleagues and I have to stand in front of a group of students waiting to see which one of us will give the instructions. For many years, my Czech and British colleagues sat back and waited for the big-mouthed American (me) to jump on the opportunity to speak in public to a large group of people. And years ago, this totally worked. However, a few years ago I started shying away from this limelight and, these days, I engage in their battle of wills and simply wait until one of us is directly ordered by our boss to speak.

Nothing makes a Brit more awkward than dealing with other human beings. And I am right there with them. I would rather take 39 months of yoga, learn to bend my body in half and eat my foot than engage in small talk with strangers or acquaintances. It’s one of the reasons I have not been in a lift (elevator, for you Yanks) in 2 years. Watching a Brit trapped in small talk is hilarious. Bring popcorn. Watching two British people forced to engage in small talk is more tragic than Macbeth. Just, just go away.

I now (like most Brits) have trouble dealing with Americans. We the American people are over enthusiastic, too personal, and loud. We want to talk to everyone and even if people are not engaged in our conversation, we make it loud enough so that everyone can hear it. Everyone. We share too much personal information too fast. In fact, the only time I enjoy seeing Americans in public is when they are torturing a British person they have trapped in conversation.

This all said, I am holding on to my American heritage in a few ways. First off, no U. Color. Demeanor. Humor. Behavior. Second, I still dance at the university ball (though I have to be insanely drunk). I love coffee and I hate tea. I can’t drink tea unless it is more bourbon that tea, which really means that I love bourbon enough to deal with the fact that it’s been infected with tea.

Also, I am direct. Years of miscommunications have taught me to say the word “no” to people instead of my British friends, who put together a laundry list of backwards phrases and modal verbs that are only understood by other Brits. (see above translation list)