Cross-Cultural Friendships…
Reader Chris left a comment to This Post the other day, about his own experiences making friends of German visitors. I can relate. The landscape is full of landmines…but its rewarding.
I made friends, briefly, with a British kid some years back. We were both working in a custom plastic shop, and he knew a family in the apartment complex I lived in, so we had some points of contact between us. The kid, Paul, who was so goddamned cute, first told me the joke about how England and America were two nations separated by a common language. And it’s true. You really couldn’t assume that even words we both shared in our language meant the same things. Once, when he cut himself at the shop, and asked for a ‘patch’, all the good old boys at the shop laughed their butts off. ‘Patch’ is the word they use for what we referred to as a ‘bandage’ over on this side of the Big Pond. And ‘torch’ for ‘flashlight’. And so on. But beyond the meaning of words, there were dozens of little cultural differences all the good old boys could not have cared less about, when they weren’t laughing at them, but which I tried hard to pay attention to, because he was cute, and because he was decent and good-hearted, and I really wanted to be his friend.
You have to work at it. But it’s worthwhile. There are landmines and you have to be careful. Even if you speak the same language. Especially if. Where the language barrier exists you kind of know you they’re there. But even where you’re both speaking the same tongue you have to take care to reach across the fence. The key is trust. You have to hold it like a precious thing, and always take the extra step to keep it. Paul and I lost touch after he went back to England. But I hope he still thinks of me from time to time. He opened my eyes a tad to some of the British stereotypes I grew up with. Swear to God I can’t even watch Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins anymore since I knew Paul. It’s so…embarrassing.
I so very much want to be the friend to my crush from my high school days that I was too shy to be back then. I think its coming along. I hope it is. Maybe I’ll get a chance to see him later next month. Maybe not. But I’ll keep trying. He means a lot to me. So I try to learn this and that of his culture and background. It’s worthwhile, even if we remain mostly apart. It’s opened my eyes to a bit more of the world, and that’s always a good thing.
I ordered some books on German history and culture from Amazon. I’m going to read through them when they come. Even if it doesn’t bring us closer together, it’s having a broadening effect on me. This poor angry world could use more of that in all of us. If I could change one thing about the American educational system it would be this: every kid would have to spend a year abroad…somewhere…before graduating. My countrymen are a bit too insular. We need to see more of the world first hand while we’re still young. Maybe we’d be better neighbors if we did.
Actually…I tried mayonnaise on my fries just the other day. They were…delicious.
September 29th, 2008 at 3:35 pm
Here’s a couple more amusing examples of how we’re two nations separated by our common language:
In American English, to "table" something means to place it on the table and focus on something else, while in most other forms of English it means to bring it to the table for discussion. In the words of Winston Churchill, talking of a meeting that occurred during WWII, "The British Staff prepared a paper which they wished to raise as a matter of urgency, and informed their American colleagues that they wished to "table it." To the American Staff "tabling" a paper meant putting it away in a drawer and forgetting it. A long and even acrimonious argument ensued before both parties realized that they were agreed on the merits and wanted the same thing."
The British phrase "I’m wearing beige trousers" translates into American as "I’m wearing khaki pants." However the American phrase "I’m wearing khaki pants" – especially when spoken with a strong Southern or Texan accent – translates into British as "I’ve shit in my underwear". I first discovered this irony during a sermon a Texan friend gave some years ago in my former church.