Graduation. Wow. That’s big stuff. Dressing up in a gown; hanging out with your great uncle who can’t hear; pretending you’re not disappointed to have been rejected from Teach for America; suddenly becoming friends with people you didn’t talk to the whole time you were in college; all are hallmark end-of-an-era experiences—unless, of course, you go to one of the constituent colleges at the University of London.
At University College London, where I have spent the past five months, there is actually a graduation ceremony. But if you want to go, it will cost you—as in, there is literally a participation fee for students. Between that, a mortarboard, and a hotel for grandma and grandpa, a fair number of students think it’s just not worth it and opt out. My flatmate, Maria, is one of those who will slip quietly into the real world with neither pomp nor circumstance. She’ll finish her exams and call it an academic career. (Her diploma, the school tells her, will arrive at her home within five to seven business days.)
I’m not graduating, but I am nearly done with my Junior Year Abroad, a watershed experience perhaps only one tier below graduation itself. Study abroad is all about becoming a “global citizen” and embracing cultural difference—UCL calls itself “London’s Global University.” So to test whether I’m truly deserving of a study abroad diploma, I’ve decided to enumerate the top five moments of gut-wrenching cultural reckoning I’ve experienced since coming to the UK.
5. Faking an English accent: For the past four months I have worked twice a week as a classroom assistant in an English class for young women who recently immigrated to the UK. I figured it would be the perfect job for me because, well, I speak English. However, I quickly determined that British English is an entirely different cup of linguistic tea from good ol’ American English. After a couple weeks of blank stares from students when I asked them to repeat words like “water” or “supermarket,” I realized that my hard pronunciation of the letter “r” and curtailed vowel sounds were throwing everyone for a loop. So I faked it. Moral of the story: Turns out it’s not at all as hard as my purist English friends would have me believe.
4. Customer Service: My friend and I were given three McFlurries by a careless till attendant after we only asked for two. He made us pay for all three! A delicious outrage! Moral of the story: The customer is rarely right in England.
3. Date Britain: I agreed to grab a drink with an English guy about two months ago. Oops. I spent one night I’ll never get back listening to him talk about how much he hated reading, his problems with his landlord, and his mum’s trip to West Virginia. (“In America, right?”) I knew he was the one when he asked me how much my salary was at my aforementioned job. To find out if I had just been out with a shmuck or if it was some kind of English thing to ask financially probative questions over casual drinks, I asked my flatmate, Will, (the authority on all things English). “What’s wrong with that?” he responded. Moral of the story: still single.
2. Birds of a Feather Wok Together: It’s a truth universally acknowledged that pigeons are cheekier in Britain than anywhere else in the world. That would explain why I spend most of my breakfasts in the company of the three pigeons who have taken up permanent residence in my flat’s kitchen. Rather than battling them, my English friends have encouraged me to embrace the situation. Moral of the story: I’m glad I’ve had all my shots.
1. Imperialism: Hating on other cultures and then colonizing them and teaching them to play cricket is a treasured English pastime. The Commonwealth has shrunk significantly since the sun set on the British Empire, but the irrational hatred for pretty much everyone who doesn’t have an English passport is still very much alive. After listening to my English friends rag on the French (especially the French), the Germans, the Irish, the Canadians, the Spanish, the Chinese, the Brazilians, and of course, the Americans—they stay away from India and most of Africa, though, and it’s easy to imagine why—I’ve been imbued with a renewed sense of patriotism. Moral of the story: I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free.
So there you have it: I have faked an English accent, paid for a superfluous McFlurry, gone on a bad blind date, dined with a flock of pigeons, and learned to hate on Continental Europe with gusto. If that’s all it takes to be “a citizen of the world,” then by George, I think I’ve earned myself a diploma!
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