The Ignorant Underdog

President Barack Obama has got me thinking, but not about healthcare. I haven’t been thinking about Medicare or Medicaid, or Cash for Clunkers, or socialistic economic theory, or Sarah Palin’s loosening grip on reality. I haven’t been thinking about the country.

He’s got me thinking about myself.

I am an American, and in five days I will be boarding a plane to France. And although the Parisian streets may still be littered with confetti and streamers from last November, the smell of the shit on the bottom of George W. Bush’s cowboy boots is still a relatively recent memory for the international community. Bush seems content to slip into obscurity—at least as deep as a former president can slip—but Dick may be a little less willing to relinquish his reigns. Some members of my very Southeastern Ohio family have expressed concern as to how I will be treated as an American in an anti-American country. But exactly how anti-American is France today? How has the election of the forty-forth president of the United States affected Uncle Sam’s international appeal?

Frankly, I have no clue. And frankly, I hope it hasn’t. Here’s the thing: Everybody loves the underdog. You could argue (as I am) that being a post-Bush American in France could evoke the sights, smells, and tastes that are characteristic of the underdog, or at the very least, something that looks, smells, and tastes similar to it. Now, let’s be clear as to the specific connotations to which I’m referring. I don’t mean to say that I would be physically inferior, but rather I would exist in opposition to the status quo and, therefore, would operate to a slight societal disadvantage. (Think Kevin Bacon in Footloose as opposed to Rudy.) For reasons that will be purged later, I masochistically desire that my semester in France be influenced by the disadvantage of being an American. I want to be the underdog.

Dust off your old VHS, pause for a moment to contemplate the life and career of Rick Moranis, then pop in a copy of Little Giants. Becky “The Icebox” O’Shea is a perfect example of this particular breed of underdog. She was rejected to play for the Cowboys (by her own uncle, no less) not because she couldn’t play football. (In fact, she was the best player.) Instead, Al Bundy passed her over because she was a girl. The Icebox was essentially handicapped by society’s stereotypes concerning gender and sports. Similarly, the notions of American culture held among the French consist of stereotypes that would serve to keep me from "making the team," that is, from assimilating into, and successfully cohabiting with, the French and French culture. But the thing is, I sort of want it that way.

Why? Well, that’s a good question. I think it’s all about comfort, to be honest. Without going into unnecessary detail, a part of me feels as if I’ve been tied to this kind of societal disadvantage my entire life. Due to my, uh, “fondness of truck stop restrooms” (as my mildly homophobic friend Tom would put it), my life has been lived in a kind of perpetual underdog montage. This affinity for antiquing can have a myriad of detrimental effects, from putting me into an interpersonal minus column (best case scenario) to a coma (worst).

However, not only have I come to accept my role as a bona fide underdog, I relish it. I need it. In what seems to me like a perfectly reasonable paradox, being disadvantaged creates a social context in which I thrive. The underdog has nothing to lose; the underdog benefits from a comprehensive freedom rooted in, and nurtured by, the utter lack of collateral. Just ask your black friend or that Asian kid who sits behind you in Roman Civ: there’s a wonderful adrenaline rush that comes with being surrounded by doubt. And, of course, it also makes victory that much sugary-sweeter.

But perhaps I’m making it sound too simple, a tad too straight-to-DVD. All underdogs are plagued by that initial hesitation; there’s always a moment—some in slow motion, some sprung from an epiphany, but all backed by inspirational power chords—where a chance is taken and a fist is raised in sweet, sweet defiance. Recall how terrified the Little Giants were when they stepped out onto the field (especially with Spike added to the Cowboys roster). Nonetheless, The Icebox and teen heartthrob Devon Sawa led the team to victory in true Disney fashion. (And in the off chance that the Icebox is reading this, my friend Big Jon would love to take you out for a drink.)

I feel that fear. The rainbow flag (not my idea, by the way—I’m more of an earth tone guy, myself) that eclipses the total sum of my identity here in the States will turn red, white, and blue upon my arrival in France. Even if I don the snuggest jeans and thicken my accent to molasses, I may still be unable to rise above the guise of the SUV-drivin’, American-version-of-The-Office-watchin’ American. And if the previous twenty-one years of my life have taught me anything, it’s that being a living embodiment of a taboo can only do wonders for your social life.

And this is why I’m so hesitant to accept a Yankee-friendly France. Without a single taboo to my name, how am I supposed to function according to a default program that is wired to the expectation that somebody sort of hates me? One of the reasons that I can bring myself to be so outgoing is that I understand that there is approximately a seventeen-percent chance that people will appreciate my endearingly quirky—if not sometimes in-your-face—eccentricities. All of my life I’ve had nothing to lose. But now that that nothing is taken away from me (or, I guess, something has been given to me), what do I really have to offer?

Thus, for the good of myself and all others who are me, I must not give up hope that the French will continue to feel at least a dull aversion to the U.S. of A. You may call this selfish. I call it the American Way.

--C.Z.


And now that the inceptive pang of rejection has faded considerably, I’m now thankful that the Institute for the International Education of Students did not select me to blog about my study abroad experience for them. I suspect this is not what they had in mind.