Europa, Europa

I’ve been having a hard time blogging the past two days. It seems as if all of my energies in writing have been spent on comments at a new blog where I’ve engaged in a debate with British Conservatives who worry themselves over why America isn’t trying harder to make herself more likeable to Britain and to Europe.

Why should we give a rat’s ass? I say. Not with those crude words. But in essence, yes.

I’m an Anglophile. I’m partially of British descent. I love British theatre, film, literature, and history. Yet I’ve noticed a change within myself. I’ve been to the UK several years ago and never have I seen such Euro anti Americanism in person until my eyes were opened by it there, particularly among the younger Britons. They hate us. They have nothing but disdain and scorn for us. I’ve been lectured by university students there that the EU is the answer to American “hegemony” and “global dominance” which is the cause of most of the world’s woes. I remained silent, but something in my heart grew hard and angry when I saw and listened to these students sit coolly and discuss the “evil empire” that is America. This is not the same Britain that I once knew and loved.

So much for the continuation of the “special relationship”. Churchill must be rolling in his grave. And Roosevelt too for that matter. What would they think now? Is Adolph Hitler having the last laugh?

And what of Europe? Sneering, posturing, haughty Europe. Always blaming America. Always faulting American policy as the creator of the world’s problems. Always holding America responsible for “fixing” those problems, then later condemning it for “meddling”.

So should we give a rat’s ass? Should we be concerned about making ourselves more “palatable” to delicate European sensibilities? Not on your life, I say. As a matter of fact, not on Europe’s life, because Europe has no life. “Dead man walking!” the man shouted as the convicted felon shuffled to the electric chair. “Dead man walking!” That is Europe. Grown old, a history of crimes against humanity, no children to give new hope to erase the ugly past, no future to behold. Forget about the glorious music of Beethoven and Mozart. Forget about the soaring cathedrals at Notre Dame and Chartres. Forget about the words of Dante and Shakespeare. Forget about the Mona Lisa and the Pieta. Forget about the ideals of the Greeks and the government of the Romans. Forget about your Mother Church who gave you reason and universities and hospitals. Forget it all, Europe, because you cannot love yourself anymore, so you have chosen to hate. You have chosen to hate yourselves and your culture. And in turn you hate us. You hate America. And that is sick. Why is it sick?

Because we are your children, Europe. Yes, face it, we are. We came to these shores from your lands and we carried your languages, your customs, your food, your clothing, your dreams here and built a new nation. Even some of our cities and towns bear the names of your own: (New) York, Paris, Madrid, Frankfurt, Milan…

We conquered this continent, hostile and dangerous and full of wilderness. We overcame the land and walked across it, on horse and on foot, with wagons and with carts. We built log cabins and sod houses. We hunted the game and tore into the soil to give us food to live. We endured freezing winters and sweltering summers; we doctored our own wounds and pulled our own teeth. We fought the fierce natives and subdued them to our will. We died of smallpox and tuberculosis and pneumonia. And yet we lived. We survived. We made this land ours. We live our dreams here, purchased by the blood of those who fought for it then and by those who fight for it now. And we told stories of our past homelands, we passed on to our children the songs of our grandparents who stayed behind…

And you hate us now. How strange. What pathology is this, that a parent would hate his own child? Would scorn his success? Would hope for his downfall and death?

Do you curse upon your children with your last dying breath, Europe? Like mad Ahab, spitting and snarling at his imagined enemy, who drowned in his obsession to destroy, who, in the wreckage, left only one survivor. One called Ishmael.