I Am (Not) McDonalds
*names changed to protect the innocent

Condensed water rolled lazily down the windowpanes. I followed the droplets with my eyes all the way to the end of their journey, my left hand smashed against my cheek, unconsciously exposing my upper back teeth. I might have drooled a little.

The first half hour of poetry class was a vague cacophony of crisp British dialects and blunt American non-accents, blended together like white noise. The blonde Canadian girl named Angie* had just finished reading her poem to the class (something about the passion of lovemaking), and we all clapped politely, as if we were in a comedy lounge, except we weren’t snapping.

Our teacher (who was, ironically, an American from Georgia) began to flatter her with vague and meaningless praise: “I liked how the rhyme at the end of the second meter really brought out the passion that she described. It made me feel like I was right there, making love with her.” Angie coughed a little and looked at her hands, her lips twitching as if she were unsure whether to blush or laugh.

My friend Lindsay*, who was sitting next to Angie, waited for Angie to decide on a reaction and took a swig from her Diet Pepsi bottle in preparation to read. I was marginally interested: Lindsay was an outspoken Chicago native, and whatever else I could say about her, she was generally blunt. I averted my eyes briefly from the water droplets, at least long enough to listen to the first stanza.

“I AM McDonalds,” Lindsay began authoritatively, pronouncing each word disdainfully. “I am the obnoxious American dressed in brightly colored clothing amid a sea of black and gray on the London tube. I am the rich kid with the Jansport backpack and the Northface jacket. I am the raucous laughter in a British coffee shop of hushed whispers. I am the soldiers, pillaging the homes of the innocent while carrying a flag of red, white, and blue. I am an American, ashamed of my country.”

Now, I already knew Lindsay’s political opinions to an extent, but even so, my jaw gaped. It was nothing entirely new, to be sure: the entire time I’d been in England, the war had been either pending or in progress, nearly every bedroom window had posted a “Don’t Attack Iraq” sign, an enormous protest had flooded Trafalgar Square in London only the weekend before, and students really never asked each other, “what’s your opinion on the war?” because the answer was presumed obvious. I had even heard other study abroad students insult American tourists in Europe generally, claiming that they were ashamed of the association. But this public denunciation of the American people, by an American and to a group of foreigners, astonished and appalled me.

I stole a glance around the room, to see how everyone else was reacting: Katie* (from Seattle) was watching Lindsay with her head cocked slightly to one side, with a half-smile and an almost imperceptible nod of approval. John* (from Milwaukee) held his pencil absently in front of him, listening with rapt attention. But Matthew* (from Sussex) kept compulsively scratching his head, and wouldn’t look directly at her. I noticed, actually, that all of the Americans in the room seemed to silently ratify her thesis; and that it was the British students who appeared to be fidgeting in their seats and tugging at their clothing uncomfortably.

Lindsay’s tone became stronger and louder with each stanza, until she declared once more with a flourish, “I AM McDonalds,” and dropped her paper carelessly on her desk, gazing proudly at the professor. I suppressed a giggle. About a month before I had been in London with Lindsay and our other friend Denise*, and before we got on a train to go back to Norwich, both girls had complained that they were hungry. We had walked around the city for about thirty minutes before we discovered that our only options were a few pubs with menus that didn’t appeal to them, and McDonalds. “I don’t want to support their capitalism!” Denise had said, only half-joking, as she reached for the door handle. I had laughed sarcastically, but chose not to reply; Denise and I had only known each other for a month at the time, and already it had become clear to me that politics would have to be a subject we left alone.

Lindsay had concurred, “How disgusting is it that there’s a McDonalds in every major city in the world?” Suddenly Denise had turned to me and said, “Hey, I have an idea. How about since you don’t have anything against them, I give you the money, and you go buy me a Happy Meal? That way I won’t be directly supporting them!” “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding!” I had exclaimed derisively. “Of course I’m kidding,” she had laughed, “although I do think it would make me feel a little better.”

Both girls then had turned their backs to me, lost in their deliberation of fast food and capitalism, and I slinked off in the background, long enough to pull my camera out of my purse and turn it on. “Hey Lindsay and Denise!” I had called, and before they had time to duck and run (both girls tried), I had snapped the evidence: their horrified faces in front of glossy larger-than-life Value Meals and the telltale arched M in the background.

I glanced back at the professor to see how she’d handle this, and she actually looked flustered; finally she said, “I like how you worked repetition into your poem. It really helped to emphasize your theme.” She stopped, opened her mouth, and closed it again. John jumped in, “I can definitely identify,” and he laughed, “sometimes I’m embarrassed to be an American when I’m on the Tube and they’re all talking so freaking loud…”

“ Seriously!” Katie cried loudly. “Americans seem so spoiled compared to the rest of the world!”

“Well,” said Matthew, one of the British students, fiddling with his top button, “not all Americans are like that.”

“Obviously!” another British student named Jen* chimed in quickly. “Maybe parts of it are true, because all stereotypes come from somewhere. But I have a number of American friends, all of whom are very worth being friends with.”
“Well, of course we don’t all totally suck,” Lindsay said, “but don’t tell me you haven’t been hanging out in London and rolled your eyes at an obnoxious group of American tourists. I mean, I know I have.”

“That’s rather obvious,” Jen said, “but I don’t think it’s fair to judge an entire nation or people group based on a few. You would be horrified by racism in any other form; it’s only socially acceptable to condemn America right now...”
“Right, and it’s one thing to say you disagree with your government’s politics. It’s another thing entirely to insult the general public,” Matthew said.
“All I’m saying is that they’re obnoxious when they’re traveling overseas,” Lindsay said defensively, “I didn’t, like, insult their integrity or anything.”

“Didn’t you? You said you were ashamed to be one of them, that’s rather broad.”
Lindsay opened her mouth and closed it again, apparently unsure how to respond.

“So then Lindsay, how would you describe the character of the American people to your British classmates?” the professor asked helpfully.

She raised her chin and said, “I think McDonalds is an appropriate symbol for Americans in general: they’re capitalist, greedy, and arrogant, trying to wipe out other people’s cultures and replace it with our own, because they think ours is the best. And I think that’s why the American tourists are so obnoxious: it comes from a lack of respect. Two sides of the same coin.”

The professor nodded, trying to look pensive, but looked at Matthew to signal that he should begin reading next just a little too quickly, betraying that she really was looking for an excuse to change the subject. As Matthew began reading something about a “damn key chain”, I elbowed Lindsay to get her attention, and with my other hand fumbled through my backpack for my journal. She looked at me and raised her eyebrows, and I shoved the book at her, open, with a picture taped to the page: her expression when she saw it nearly mimicked that which was captured in the frame in all its timeless glossy glory, blackmailed in a London McDonalds.

Lauren Deville participated in the student exchange program with the University of East Anglia in Norwich, England. She is a senior majoring in Biochemistry & Molecular Biophysics and minoring in Creative Writing and Spanish. Lauren won a $25 giftcard to the University of Arizona Bookstore.