Happy 4th of July America You Bastards/Why Don’t You Love Me?

I remember my first day at the American International School in Saudi Arabia in 1988 when I was 7 years old. I walked into the bright colorful classroom, full of bright shiny toothed shiny haired yankee doodle American kids. I had just moved to Saudi from the glittering town of Pontefract, West Yorkshire (Ponte Carlo), and I’d never met an American before in my life, but there was something about them that I immediately loved. They were smiley, silly, funny, and energetic, and so was I. These were my fellow idiots. These, were my people. Except as my life went on, I would realize I could never truly be one of them. [cue sad violin music]

I remember lining up that day at the front of the class, and each kid blurted out their name, where they were from, their favourite sport, and their favourite musician. I remember saying “Arnab! England! Football! Michael Jackson!” I assumed the other kids would echo similar things, but it became clear that Texas, Baseball, and The Beach Boys were the popular choices amongst them, and I had never heard of any of those three weird things before. The Beach Boys sounded goofy as hell. How could they hold a torch to Michael Jackson?!? Not for the last time in my life, I felt like an outsider. What were cheetos? What was whiffle ball? What the hell was a smore?!? Nevertheless, as we were all kids stuck in some weird desert in a foreign land, we all instantly became best friends, but my lack of American-ness had been highlighted, and so my metamorphosis into a psuedo-American was about to begin.

My accent turned American within 2 years of living in Saudi, and yet weirdly, I had never even stepped foot in America. I gradually learned American slang and started changing the spelling of “colour” to “color” and stopped using words like “cheeky.” I became obsessed with basketball and Michael Jordan and Anfernee Hardaway and Alf and Nirvana and Beavis and Butthead and David Letterman and Seinfeld and Sloppy Joes and Pizza and all that great American stuff. But despite becoming more and more American, it didn’t quite seem to make me one. I remember circa 1992, and it was the 4th of July, another tradition I knew absolultely nothing about. In the compound, all the American kids in my class were playing in the annual 4th of July baseball game. I went up to the organizer and said “Can I play?” He looked at me and apologetically said “Oh, sorry Arnab, but this game is only for Americans. Maybe we’ll have another game after for everyone else?” My heart sank. Once again, I was reminded that being American was about something else. But what the hell was that thing? Drinking milk at dinner? Is that what these lunatics wanted me to do?!?

Nevertheless, I ended up going to high school and university in the states for 8 years as well, and absolutely loved it. More American-ness seeped into me. Calling everyone a “dooshbag” whilst wearing a visor and funnelling beers was now part of my DNA. But upon graduation, the economy was awful and I couldn’t find a job in the U.S., and when my student visa expired, I ended up coming back to England, a country I hadn’t lived in for 16 years, but which was technically still my country of Citizenship. America, the son of a bitch, had rejected me again.

So, after 8 years in Britain doing stand-up and all sorts of comedy nonsense, I managed to get a work visa in America. My U.S. agent and manager convinced me I would be a huge success there. The new Gary Coleman! Off I went, with full intention of moving there permanently and pursuing the American dream. Instead, L.A. chewed me up and spit me out like every other a**hole before me. Rejection #3.

So, heart broken once again, at age 31, I returned back to England. Back to Blighty. The country of my birth. But this time, for the first time, I loved it. I loved being in London, and I realised it always took me in when no one else did. It was my favourite city in the world, and I suddenly felt very lucky to be able to live here. Sure I missed New England in the summers and NYC Pizza and the American sense of humour and the American girls and watching basketball and eating buffallo chicken wings, but London was now another home. These London pricks were my pricks, and I was one of them.

Anyhow, despite all the heartache, America has still made an indelible mark on my dumb life, and in the end, my favourite song of all time did end up being a Beach Boys song. It’s the prettiest song I’ve ever heard, and one that makes me nostalgic for an America I’ve never even experienced, but for some reason, feel as though I have. Despite America rejecting me time and time again, I’ll always kind of love it, and in all honesty, still want it to love me back. Happy 4th of July you bastards. Thanks for “Disney Girls” (Beach Boys) x

Arnab Chanda is a producer/writer/actor.
Follow Arnab on Twitter! @arnabacus
Check out his Website: http://www.arnabchanda.com