That American Election

I guess the best way to start off this blog is by saying I don’t know how to start off this blog. I’ve thought of you, dear readers, for several months: I’ve lamented how to write about this subject without coming across as “self-important” or unnecessary. I’ve written and and rewrote it; I’ve deleted it and then I’ve dug it out of the [digital] trash.

This blog is called That American Girl. It’s a cheeky, silly, on-the-nose name for what felt like an appropriate introduction to my relationship with Belgrade. Who is dating Aleksa? Oh, it’s that American girl. Whose writing about Serbian women’s fashion? It’s that American girl again.

The last few months, I’ve developed a bit of imposter syndrome about being that American Girl. For one, I definitely don’t see myself as a girl. I’ve been married for several years; I’ve been in my career for several years; I’ve officially aged out of my dad’s insurance plan. I’m as womanly as I’ll ever be, although I’m not looking to revise the blog’s domain. That American Woman just makes me think of the Lenny Kravitz song. Which feels pretty cheesy. 

For the record, I don’t feel belittled by the term girl. You can call me a girl. It’s whatever. I’m just saying that I feel old, even though I am not old. Okay? Look, media literacy is pretty bad. I teach college English, so I know this firsthand. I just want to make this clear: I am an American girl. But I don’t really know what that means anymore.

I was born in the United States; my high school had Friday night football games and sparkly cheerleaders. I grew up carving pumpkins and baking chocolate chip cookies for Santa Claus. I wolfed down cheeseburgers on the Fourth of July and I shopped at Walmart on Black Friday. I love the invention of cowboys and award shows and Halloween costumes. These are just some of the things that I’ve been told are super American. 

But lately it feels like I have this responsibility to be the American example for my Serbian audience. Each time I go to Belgrade, I’m always asked the same two questions: how is America different from Serbia, and do I like Donald Trump? It’s really difficult to explain that my corner of the U.S. is different from the rest of the U.S. — or better yet, that my experience doesn’t reflect a unified culture. Unlike Serbia, the U.S. is a giant country with an incredibly diverse population. So one cannot really relay their political beliefs without having to revisit a complex account of American politics and history — not just related to their region, but their identity.

For me, it’s like this: I may be an American girl, but I don’t want to be your American news source. Don’t go off of me; don’t rely on me. Do your own research and make your own opinions. I feel the need to say this mostly because this blog has made the news before. 

I don’t want to come across as pretentious, but having this kind of platform feels really stressful. I haven’t and don’t know what to say. I don’t like the responsibility of attention on the matter. (Even right now, watching the election unfold from my television, I don’t really know what to say. Aleksa and I have been exchanging mumblings here and there.)

It feels both good and bad when Serbians tell me, “you’re not like other Americans.” There’s a part of me that’s like, thank GOD I’m not being such a tourist. You know that reputation Americans have for being obnoxious and loud on vacation? Well, yeah, who would want to be called those things? So obviously a part of me feels self-congratulatory when I am told I am not like those other, obnoxious Americans. 

But the other part of me feels icky about that comment — which has also been explained to me in different ways: you’re not dumb, you’re not fat, you’re not plain, you’re stylish, you’re different, you’re great. [This is how] you’re not like other Americans.

This makes me feel uncomfortable and strange: I don’t like how the world perceives Americans. We’ve got plenty of incredibly smart, wonderful, talented people here who are being oppressed by federal laws and state laws and the economy. We’ve got our fair share of problems. But it feels inappropriate to boo-hoo to a country of people who know what it’s like to be oppressed for hundreds of years. 

I’ve met my fair share of Serbians who truly and wholly believe that anyone can “make it” in America. That if you work really hard, you can have the best car and the biggest home — better and bigger than anyone else you know. What they don’t know is how highly unattainable this dream is: how many obstacles are in the way to prevent you from acquiring this dream. They don’t know the laws, the policies, or the system — broken or fixed — that make this dream difficult for most.

Some Serbians told me that’s cynical because they know some guy who went to the U.S. and made his money and came back to Serbia and lived like a king. To which I replied that most Americans that guy’s age have roughly $40k in debt from college and can’t find an entry level position in the job he went $40k in debt for and can’t pay off the debt, now. Or that that guy also has to pay $30k a year on rent for a crappy place. 

My blog might be called That American Girl, but I feel very bewildered to be one. I am not happy about anything going on. I am not proud of these candidates. Things feel pretty bleak, honestly.

So how do I come across as myself when the term That American Girl feels so far away from me? When I don’t feel too connected to girlhood or this election? How do I do this blog justice in the spirit of the name of it?

And I don’t know, maybe I am overthinking it. Maybe you don’t care and you’ve never considered it. But when I see my name online— and below it, ThatAmericanGirl. com— I feel like I’ve got to say something. Even if it’s really nothing new, radical or interesting. 

I know Serbians are watching this election closely because America has a ripple effect on the world. I know several Serbians who are vocal about their support of Trump and distaste toward Kamala Harris. I know there is still great anger and depression about what happened in 1999. 

And tangentially related, I know Serbians are currently grieving those who lost their lives in that railway collapse in Novi Sad. I don’t really know how to comfort you besides saying I am sorry for what happened in Novi Sad and for what may happen because of this election. I’m sorry, and I don’t really know what else to say. 

I don’t really know how to end this blog, just like I didn’t know how to start it. But let’s hope the next blog is more cheerful.