L’Americana

A few weeks ago I was in a sweater quandary. I almost always wear cardigans, which are not particularly fashionable, but I'm currently in a Mister Rogers phase - sartorially anyway. I was about to depart for a location photo shoot in Italy where the weather would be, I was informed by our producer there, “unseasonably cold, wet and blustery.” I had been looking for a long, sturdily built crew neck sweater that would keep me warmer than a cardigan and could take some serious wear and tear. I work photographing beautiful clothes for a living but when we go to extreme locations no one cares about “fashion” and the crew usually ends up looking like a bargain basement camping supply store threw up on us all.  

Two days before I was meant to depart, I was driving through my town and I saw the sweater of my dreams emerging from the library. It was sported by a girl who looked to be about fourteen - I am a few years beyond that, but no worries…I wanted it. I went to my frenemy, Google, and searched “long cotton beige sweater with American flag design on front” and viola! There it was. The exact same sweater. The price was right so I ordered it. The sweater arrived at my house just as I was leaving for the airport so I threw off my cardigan, pulled my new “favorite sweater” over my head and sallied forth to JFK. 

I boarded my flight to Torino and as I placed my bag in the overhead compartment I heard a man say in Italian (which unbeknownst to him I speak pretty fluently) “ci vuole le palle enorme” which translates roughly into “that takes big balls.” I love anything that might cause a stir so I looked around frantically while still standing in the aisle, searching for who was doing something that took “le palle enorme.”

Oddly enough, the man who had said “that takes balls” was glancing in my direction while at the same time trying to avoid my gaze. “Oh my God” I realized, sitting down immediately and throwing a scarf over my American flag sweater. I was shocked...and suddenly ashamed. 

It just got worse from there. When our production assistant Luca picked me up at the airport he gave me the once over and remained silent. I wanted to tell him that I was in no way meaning to make a political statement - I just liked the sweater - but it was impossible. His mind was made up. I could almost hear him thinking that anyone who has the nerve to wear an American flag sweater in another country is a monster. “At least I'm not wearing a Putin sweatshirt” I wanted to tell him, but I was too tired to argue. And, by the way he was looking at me, I think an “I ❤️ Vlad” sweatshirt might have been preferable to my American flag statement anyway.

I used to live in Italy and although my Italian friends disliked the American President (it was George H. W. Bush at that time) they seemed to love Americans and would often call me “L’Americana.” They would introduce me in this way to other Italians not with disdain...but with…dare I say...pride? Like “here's my American friend,” as though I was a sort of interesting and well-received curiosity. They wanted to know all about America and they couldn’t wait to visit. That is not the case today. In fact, on the sullen car ride from the airport to the hotel in Torino, I asked Luca if he had ever been to the states. His answer? “No.” When I asked him if he ever planned on visiting he said he had no interest. “Non voglio essere colpito al supermercato” he told me. “I don't want to be shot in the supermarket.”

I reluctantly packed the sweater away. It was the perfect sweater for the elements but I didn't want any more dirty looks or snide comments so away it remained for the rest of my trip.

Once I was back in America I mistakenly believed that my lovely, sturdy American flag sweater would cause no alarm. Man, was I wrong. As I sauntered into my regular yoga class everyone turned to stare before one of the more vocal members of the class spoke up. “I certainly hope you didn't wear THAT” she barked, pointing with one long accusatory talon at my chest “in Europe.”

“As a matter of fact I wore it on the plane over,” I told her, not wanting to be bullied about my fashion choices.

“Well that took balls,” she informed me dismissively as the rest of the class turned away.

“Oh. I think you have some friends in Torino,” I told her, but she ignored me.

The next day after work I went to get a manicure at my favorite nail salon. This is a bustling, friendly place and I'm there twice a month, so the ladies who work there know me. These are hard-working women. They arrive early and stay late. The salon is a chattery place swarming with languages and dialects. These women (and some men) come from South Korea and the Philippines and Mexico and El Salvador and Honduras. Some barely speak English and yet here they are, smiling, working in the nail salon and sending money home to their families. They are all here in America with hopes of “improving the life" as one of them told me years ago. 

That cheers me a little, I guess. People are still coming to America in search of a better life. I don't imagine there are nail salons packed full of immigrants from America and Europe toiling away in Seoul or Juarez hoping to improve their lives and their families’ lives - but who knows? 

I want to wear my American flag sweater. Not because I'm some great patriot but becase it is sturdy and comfortable and I know from experience that this it is the type of sweater that simply gets better and better with age and wear. But will I wear it again? The jury is out. 

I’ve lived in Europe and I’m married to a European but I am still firmly an American. And until this most recent sweater incident I would say that I was proud to be one. America is a great country founded on inspiring principles...isn’t it? But if wearing an American flag sweater in America becomes a problem, then what? Am I supposed to hate America now? And even hate being an American? By the virulent reaction my simple sweater caused it looks like maybe I am.

When people ask me what "party" I belong to I tell them that I used to be a registered Democrat but now I identify as a Klingon and as such take my marching orders from no one but the Chancellor of the Klingon High Council. That usually has the desired effect of people simply walking away from me - all conversation about politics successfully avoided.

The columnist Cal Thomas published a book in 2020 titled America’s Expiration Date. Its premise is that most world powers last 250 years. The British Empire was the most extensive empire in world history, holding sway over 25 percent of the world’s population and 25 percent of the world’s total land area. And what is it now? A great place to visit and take a selfie of yourself in front of one of those funny red phone boxes? England, once the most powerful country the world has ever seen or most likely ever will see, is now not even considered a super power. Is America the next super power to fall? If its own residents can't stand one of their own displaying their flag I would say that’s not a great sign. 

Last week we celebrated Memorial day and there were lots of flags waving. In one local food shop I saw a display of wonderfully decorated “God Bless America” cookies. Maybe people were buying those not to eat but to stamp into dust on the sidewalk while waving a burning American flag above the crumbly mess. I don't know how well those cookies sold, but I certainly agree with the sentiment displayed on those sweet little confections. 

God Bless America indeed. Looks like we might need it.