I’ve never really known how to pose for photographs. Sometimes I’ll attempt a smile but that mostly ends up with, at the best of times, an awkward pose, and at the very worst, looking like someone featured on “To Catch a Predator.” Occasionally I’ll employ a wistful look into the distance. “Who’s that guy with the insatiable brooding intensity?” I imagine people say. In reality they are more likely to venture, “Has that man lost a relative recently?”
I’ve had complete strangers ask me in Boston, “are you alright?” Although Americans do possess that innate quality of feeling no sense of social restriction when it comes to talking to strangers, this does occasionally happen in Ireland too. I do have quite a miserable gate, but in my defense I am quite a miserable man so to portray any other sentiment would be disingenuous.
As an Irishman, I feel entitled to exhibit a melancholic dourness wherever I go. Grey skies hang oppressively low over the Emerald Isle and its inhabitants love nothing more than to wallow in the shallow puddles of mild depression. Casual, polite chit chat in the States might consist of “How bout them Red Sox” or “Can I interest you in joining the Church of Scientology?” In my country of birth, mandatory idle conversation is always about the weather. “Shocking rain we’re having,” we mutter. “Ah it’s a bit too bloody warm if you ask me,” we blurt on occasion. I remember once while waiting for a bus an old man walked by me, paused for what seemed an age, fixed me with a weary gaze and simply said, “It’s bleedin’ terrible isn’t it?” I instinctively nodded in affirmation, despite not knowing what on Earth he was talking about. I just assumed whatever “it” was was indeed terrible.
America, conversely, is the land of unbridled optimism. Not only is the glass half full here, there is always a waiter or waitress on hand to top it up even further. The denizens of this global superpower truly believe everything is possible and good for them. However, a man with a predilection for misery like myself is having a hard time adjusting to this.
I worked at a gas station for a while back home and it bred so much hatred in me for humanity that I began to cheer every time Iran edged closer to nuclear capabilities. Creaking along on the minimum wage, I used to keep myself amused by annoying the more moronic of our not-so-exclusive clientele. I once told a particularly odious man who inquired as to why one of the pumps wasn’t working, in a rather curt manner, they were voice-activated. I stared out the window in mild amusement as the man proceeded to talk to an inanimate petroleum dispenser for five minutes.
Contrast this to the immaculate customer service you enjoy here, where the customer is indeed, as they say, “king.” It defies logic to me that these people, who work arduously long hours and get payed a deplorable amount, can still somehow summon a quintessentially American “Have a nice day!” For most people this glib phrase is vastly more preferable to some cheeky little nit tricking you into talking to a piece of metal but again folks, might I refer you to my previous statements about my inability to comprehend politeness. I hate being told to have a nice day and often think of returning the next day to burden the shop-keep with tales of just how awful my day subsequently was, seeing as they seem to care so much about my happiness.
My dear readers I do of course concur your nation’s sense of conviviality, even if it is a facade at times, is infinitely more appetizing. I just ask of you, fine students of Northeastern, if you see a small ginger Irishman looking somewhat forlorn, don’t wish me a nice day. Instead, stare understandingly into my eyes, summon your best Irish brogue and say “It’s bleedin’ terrible isn’t it?”
– Greg McInerney can be reached at [email protected]
