A few years ago an American academic living in Paris mentioned to me that kids coming back to France (and maybe other European countries) after a year of high school in the United States (the famous “junior year abroad”) typically have one thing to report: “Trop fac(e)! So easy!”  In French schools the level is higher, she asserted. FYI, this was very important to her to believe because her kids were attending high school in Paris (at international school, which she considered to represent French schooling).  I pushed back: “Everything you say implies that US schools are not as good as French ones.  But then there should be some evidence for that.  Like the PISA report?  And there isn’t any such evidence.  So, do you have new data or are you just perpetuating a cliche?”  She said the latter.  Bravo for the insight.

My husband and I took our boys, 10 and 12, to New York this fall.  My kids like to visit big cities, having spent a lot of time in Paris, Chicago, and Munich (OK not so big).  After arriving in Penn Station at 9:30 p.m. my youngest did stride confidently and alone toward a men’s restroom until I caught up with him to say that, here in New York City, he had to be accompanied by a parent to public bathrooms at night.  He wasn’t being so much naïve about safety as he was sure he could deal with whatever might arise.  So I told him he was wrong.  I lived in New York City when I was a young child (ages 3-5), and I was taught otherwise.

Two nights ago a man, a farmer, who I have known and idolized since I was 8 years old, passed away at the age of 87.  Raymond was uncategorizable.  You might not believe me, since I just told you that he was a farmer. Clear-cut category, right?  You would be wrong.  In addition to being an American History buff, he loved opera. Raymond had traveled far beyond his native township in Wisconsin, not only because he served in the Navy for four years during the Korean War, but also because he was curious.  Raymond stopped by to admire my mother’s tulips on our family farm last June.  I was afraid that it was a good-bye visit, because his health had been failing for some time. But Raymond hung on for six more months.  What made the visit feel like a good bye was that he explained so much of himself to me, and the stories added to the rich texture of my perception of him as uncategorizable. 

One thing that internationals were exposed to around my dinner table when I lived in France was the launching of a conversation about the physical appearance of men and women in different countries.  This discussion was used tongue-in-cheek (by me) to replace those weird dinner party games that I saw played by adults of my parents’ generation, such as “pass the grapefruit.”  My discussion topic was a way to be intimate while talking in abstractions that no one would consider entertaining at work or in another setting.  Usually our dinner parties included at least one American (me), a German (my husband) and a few French people. Often they also included Portuguese or Slovak friends as well.  

There is an icky US car commercial that is being aired during this year’s Winter Olympics season. I feel as if it is taking on a problem of international relations that does not need to be played out in this way.  The commercial harnesses international clichés to be ironic.  And it makes me very ill at ease.