My Battle with Utensils: How my use of silverware identifies my nationality

Last evening, I had the opportunity to attend a lecture at the Reform Club in London. Peter Hennessy was speaking about the British decision to build nuclear weapons. As an aspiring historian, my father believed that I would benefit from attending the lecture. The lecture was interesting, but is not what I’d like to write about today. Instead I would like to focus on what makes me an American, rather than the Brit I could potentially be. My mother is from Ohio, my father from Northern Ireland. While most of my schooling has been in the States, I spent over 8 years in the British school system in Singapore. My American side wins most inner arguments, but a small voice (possibly that of my granny) urges me to embrace my Britishness. But last night at the Reform Club, I learned that while I may be an Anglophile, I will always be a full-fledged American.

What is the Reform Club you ask? It is a snooty, stuffy, club in Central London, where rich old white men and women argue about politics and enjoy guinea fowl and roasted vegetables. At 24, I was probably the youngest person there, other than a couple members of the catering staff. I say probably as a couple other younger people were also dragged by family members. My dad, coming in at 53, was probably close to being the second youngest. It wasn’t all bad. Many people seemed kind and wanted to know if I had enjoyed the speech. Perhaps they had mistaken me for a teenager, who was far too young to possibly understand the lecture. One woman became rather defensive and angry after my father went to move his things from a seat he had ever so mistakenly believed to be free. Several ladies reminded me of Keeping Up Appearances Hyacinth Bucket. For those of you not overly British enough to know anything about this show (or happen to be under 60), Hyacinth Bucket is one of the silliest characters to ever grace a television screen. Constantly trying to prove to her neighbors and fellow members of society that she is civilized and far from being a commoner, she insists that her last name is pronounced “Bouquet.” Her family members, clothed in wife beaters and ill-fitting pants, cause her humiliation and embarrassment. The thing is, no one cares how upper class Hyacinth believes herself to be. After attempts for propriety fail, her neighbors see her as being human, and a pain in the ass. While members of the Reform Club may actually have the titles and reputations to place them in the class with which Hyacinth wishes to associate herself, their manner and speech make them just as ridiculous in my eyes.

Having said all of that, of course I attempted to be at my best behaved and most British. Having spent quite a lot of time in the UK, I have a fairly easy time of changing certain words in my vocabulary. “Chips” become “crips,” “French Fries” become “chips,” “college” becomes “university,” and “trash can” becomes “bin.” I’ll add superfluous ‘u’s to words when spelling, and will sometimes reverse “er” to “re.” “Center” will become “centre,” and “behavior” becomes “behaviour.”  Pronunciation of words like “controversy,” “details,” and “research” may also change. After a couple of days I have no problem looking right first when crossing the street instead of left. I can even slightly change my accent so that I can trick people for a brief second that I am not an American. Saying “excuse me,” “sorry,” or “thanks,” with a small accent twist has helped place me into the “other,” or even worse, the dreaded “tourist” category. 

But, there is one thing that I cannot change. Believe me, I have tried. I cannot change how I hold my knife and fork. This may seem stupid to most people, and it is. But at a dinner party or at a restaurant, my eating habits single me out as an American. British people never put down their knives. The fork remains in the left hand while the knife helps to pile food onto the back of the fork. Peas, chicken, and potatoes will be mushed together. Noodles must not spend excess amounts of time dangling in air. In contrast, Americans will go out of their way to not have to pick up their knives. We cut a piece or two and then set our knives back down. The fork is casually switched from left to right, and if we need to cut another piece, back to the left again. When eating pancakes we will often use the edge of our forks to cut off a piece. Food like rice is scooped rather than piled onto the fork. Our free hand is free to either venture under the table, fiddle with the napkin, or help prove a point in some useless argument. While no one dared to mention it last night, I could feel myself being distanced from the rest as I used my left hand to brush away a piece of hair that had fallen into my eyes. I have come to accept my eating manners as proof that my American side will always win.