U.S. of Americanity | existabovethenoise

Anyone who knows me well knows that I missed the year of high school in which all my classmates learned about American history. That said, most of what I have learned has been self taught and, frankly, many lessons I simply haven’t learned. So, usually I know a bit about the outrage of human atrocities committed by public figures because I have been known to read socialist academic journalists and/or my friends’ facebook statuses – on occasion. But, I don’t usually own opinions in the same way as if I had heard about these events in the height of my pubescent years of awakening to a world that’s more bitter than sweet. Needless to say, this profession I’ve chosen often seats me close to more recent historical figures for whom I’m supposed to show respect, if not admiration, and about whom I’m supposed to know the basic of details, if not full biographies.

So, last week it was none other than Dr. Henry Kissinger. Imagine the pinch I found myself in as folks buzzed with interest and/or indignation. My general indifference was persistent – as it is with the majority of public personalities, save a few exceptions. There was Colin Powell – whose hand I giddily shook and vowed never to wash my hand again (until I went into the NYC subway after and figured the memory would have to suffice). And there was Abdias do Nascimento, but he’s Brazilian so I’m not sure if he counts. And if Amilcar Cabral were to come back to life I would hold a ‘Amilcar for UN Secretary General’ campaign benefit concert and be the President of his fan club. But, you see where I’m going here… Kissinger didn’t really tip my scales. After his talk, though, I found myself in a slight haze. General “wow, is this my life?!” and “wtf just happened?” thoughts came to mind. As it’s been a few days and the dust has settled, these are the 5 take aways from my audience with Herr Kissinger.

5 – We all put our pants on one leg at a time: Kissinger is a larger than life figure, but when I saw this aging, arguably disheveled, hearing aid assisted gentleman, he looked like somebody’s grandpa – which I’m sure he is. No matter what job we do, or where we sit in the world, we’re subject to the human condition. We’re born, we get old, we expire. No matter how many books you’ve written, or lives you’ve shaken – some things in life are just equalizing.

4- We are our own mystique: Most people say that confidence is sexy. And some find confidence to be self fulfilling. In the end, what we think of ourselves – our entitlement, our insecurities, our goals are never played as close to our chests as we think. In the end, the big Kiss projected an “unfuckwitable” air that I’m sure comes from years of truly believing that isht. Apparently, the earlier you start hardening your chin the sooner people will stop chipping at it. Go figure.

3- When I’m past retirement age, please just give me a microphone: So I don’t have much to say about the substance of the talk, because I couldn’t hear most of it. I’m sure the traffic outside didn’t help, but when I’m at the age of receiving a pension – please, dear God, don’t give me the task of projecting my voice. That’s just cruel and unusual punishment. Show some respect young bucks and get me a mic, so I can drop it after I’m done talking.

2- People who do amazing things rarely have anything interesting to say about it afterward: I’ve met lots of people who I admire and most of the time they answer questions in the most annoying way possible. You want to hear that they came up with the theory of relativity through some awesome burst of genius that was induced by Dr. Pepper and Jaegermeister shots, after a sunshine ray hit a window pane in a Guyanese strip club at just the right angle. You want to hear some inside scoop on how things came to pass. But, usually they answer questions with questions like, “Well, could YOU have predicted it?” “Well, what do you think happened?” And Kissinger was no exception. Surely some of it is a bout of humility, and the rest is that somethings just come to you. Some people say that art is born, it simply channels through you. Apparently, art, science and politics have something in common – if you listen to their creators tell it.

1- Could someone have done a better job, yes. Could I? No: Alright, I didn’t get the exact quote, but when Kissinger was asked one of those God awful questions about whether or not he would have done something different in retrospect, he said that one day he’d come up with a good answer. In the end, he took stock of who he was – his perspectives, training, personality, POV and said well I did the best job I could do. Emphasis on the ‘I.’ It’s not to say that someone else could not have done a better job, but I certainly could not have. I respect that. In positions of extreme power, competing interests, opposing personalities and lives at stake, decisions must be made. These decisions are not divorced from the limitations of their maker – but when it’s all said and done, we have to be who we are in taking the actions we take. Sometimes, asking for better judgement calls means asking for someone else to make the judgement altogether. So long as you got the microphone, you have to speak your piece. The standing ovation may be meant for another character. That doesn’t change your mission.

Great things have come from France. For example, we have Pierre L’Enfant, who died in time to let Benjamin Banneker take the lead on Washington, DC. This is the same L’Enfant who was fired from the planning of Paterson, NJ (not good enough for Paterson, but perfect for the nation’s capital? err?). We also have my personal favorite, French fries. Apparently they actually started in Belgium, but the French win the gold ribbon for taking credit and running with it this long. And last, but not least, Parisians gave us Christian Louboutin. I’m a huge fan of any man who can tickle me pink, while I paint the town red. He truly is the elixir whenever I’m poutin. So, with so much admiration from afar, why is it that we just can’t seem to get along?

Well, I decided to go to Paris to get to the bottom of this Atlantic Ocean east coast, west coast rivalry. I consulted all the experts – the taxi drivers and hoteliers, the Christians and the Muslims, the academics and the free lancers. And I came up with just a short list.

Americans hate because:

There’s no way to make English sound sexy. Not an Aussie or a Brit, a New Zealander or an American can purse their lips to make the mundane sound as if you’re just repeating the words “Zsa Zsa Gabor” with varied tone and inflection. I personally am not a huge fan of the French language, but I will say that whatever they say sounds important, pressing and sensual. I’m sure the taxi guy was just telling me to fly a kite, but it’s cool – just keep talking Frenchie.

The French protest because they want to work less. Americans protest because they want to work more. (Read: The French come off as lucky, whiny ingrates.) Dare I say, the French approach is downright against American values. It’s one thing to camp out on a well trafficked bridge or in a homeless camp because you can’t work—but the French take to the streets, because their secure government jobs make them show up to work… and expect that they produce… something… anything. There is a lot of jealousy raging here. What government employee doesn’t want to take to the streets on a work day to demand more benefits? The French are ballsy. We talk about it, they be about it. Ain’t that ‘bout a [je ne sais quoi]?

French hate because:

The French language stopped being politically relevant about the time the Princesses Nubiennes album dropped. (Read: Before the turn of the only century that counts – this one!) In diplomacy, English reigns supreme. In second grade classrooms the world over, the new second language is Spanish. The French are proud of their culture enough to take this as a personal slight. Oh well… having to close your nose, talk through your teeth and spit on your peers – is nobody’s idea of fun. At least they have the majority of Africa and some Caribbean islands still hot on their heels.

The jury is still out on whether or not quality of life is better between the two countries. So, barring a clear French victory, that’s a U.S. win by default. While the mid – late 20^th century Black emigration of greats like Nina Simone and James Baldwin counts for something, it’s hard to find any one in Paris who thinks that life in the 21^st century is better there than in any major American city – say, New York or Los Angeles. Some doubt that in the U.S. the French Elle article “Black Fashion Power,” would ever have been printed. This gives cause to re-examine French superiority. It could have happened in the U.S., but the very thought that it might not have… keeps the French hating on the greener grass of Black American pastures.

With that said, it’s hard to see what the beef’s about. Perhaps, we’re just both chicken- coo cooing about cultural vulnerabilities that have evolved over time to become whatever our imaginations will allow. Paris has an allure that looms larger than the Eiffel Tower. (And as it turns out, when I finally saw it up close – I was not all that impressed.) As my grandma so eloquently put it, “Paris is like Newark.” She really said that – and while it still makes 99.999% of no sense whatsoever to me, that remaining smidge holds true.

When I broke bread with other ninjas in Paris and swapped stories, I think we both gained some insight into the experience of the other half…The homeless and the rude, the pushy and the unfriendly, the smiles of no substance – they are what major cities are made of; and the personalities of major cities are what national imaginations are made of. But once you break it all down, we’re more similar than we think and that’s probably why we hate so hard from a far. Opposites attract, not kinda similarly passive aggressive personalities.

I’m pretty sure that by the end of dinner on Place du Docteur Félix Lobligeois, we all left with a mutual understanding of each others’ experiences and an even more grounded appreciation of our own countries. Just the thought of living in Paris had me mumbling “that sh*t cray” into my Moët.