I live in London and have called it home for some time now. I suppose by textbook definition I could call myself an ‘anglophile.’ For some reason even I can’t explain, I feel like I was meant to be living here over anywhere else (although the weather often calls this into question, or at least causes me to question my sanity). It might have something to do with the fact that I grew up with an English Mother – who of course emigrated to the States and has called that home for over 45 years. Maybe I’m trying to balance the universe?

When I first got here, there were of course the usual adjustments to shock the system. Note to Americans: there is not just one English accent. There are MANY; and once you start heading north - don't even get me started on Wales - good luck understanding half of them. Another thing that I’m sure is common knowledge by now, is that the language is different in many ways and the English will remind you of this every step of the way. For some reason they take joy in letting us yanks know that we have bastardized pretty much everything. But then again, isn’t that what children do to their parents? My friends, still to this day correct me, giggle at my pronunciation of aluminum (aluMINIum to them), and seem to every now and then suddenly remember I have an American accent. “You sound like such a Yank!” Well, yes, that’s because I AM, and I have no plans to start speaking like Madonna (although in her defense, a certain change in pronunciation is inevitable. But if you find an American saying tomato like the English, deport them. They’re not to be trusted).

Then there is the great difference between being English and being British; you will learn this as soon as you call the wrong person English (as most Americans do) or British for that matter (are you confused yet?). In short, most folks over here want to be deemed from the region of which they come: Wales, Scotland,  Northern Ireland or England (which of course all make up Great Britain). But a Scotsman or someone from Wales although British, is NOT English. So don't go confusing the two or you'll get a long winded tirade I assure you. Andy Murray in the early days of his career comes to mind, 'I am not English god d*mn it, I'm Scottish!!'. And they say the 'English' (or British) are innately reserved and polite.

I would say overall, all the little things you get used to and realize that at the end of the day we’re not so different, we just have different poisons if you will. Americans have their French fries and burgers, the English their fish and chips (or fry ups). Americans have their baseball and basketball, the English their football (that’s soccer to us). Americans have their upbeat ‘have a nice day’ attitude (the English will gladly point out that no race of people could be this happy in a sincere way) and the English pride themselves on mild cynicism with plenty of negativity thrown in – this is when some of the older generation will bring up the war of course.  Ah, got to love it.

Overall, I’d have to say my favorite thing about the British is their wit. And it is alive and well and one of the primary reasons I think I find it so comforting to be amongst them. I remember the moment that I realized that this was a people that was very comfortable taking the piss, as they say (translation = gentle mocking) out of just about anyone, esp. Americans (I secretly think it’s a sign of envy that the bastard child made good in life). But to my delight, what they enjoyed even better was when you hurled it right back at them. Of course you had to do it well to earn their respect, this was a sport after all. A utopia of sarcasm, I had died and gone to England. For example, when they accuse of being loud tacky Americans, take them down to the high street and point out the lovely English 'birds' hurling their dinner into the gutters after too many pints. So classy…if they say we’re all fat to the point of obscenity, point out their teeth, overall hygiene, and remind them that as a country they’re catching up damn fast…you see how it works. You’ll have friends in no time.

By the way, for those thin-skinned of you out there, I suggest a visit to Spain instead. 

We lost two icons today and to be frank, they could not be more opposite in their constitution, contribution or regard. Isn’t life amusing that way. One of course is the ex Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, Margaret Thatcher, deemed the Iron Lady. With a moniker like that you can get a good idea of how she was regarded by her countrymen (or most of them anyway). The other is Annette Funicello, not really known on foreign shores, who was greatly beloved in the United States as a former member of the Mickey Mouse Club and legend as an all around Disney Darling. Did I tell you they were different or what? It of course got me thinking about one’s legacy and how one’s lifetime of service, creativity or contribution to the world will be regarded upon their death. 

In regards to Thatcher, she is probably one of the most contentious figures in British history. You say her name in certain circles and things get downright vitriolic. But I will readily admit that I was a bit shocked (and then again, not shocked at all) to see several people’s remarks and actions (online and in the press) in lieu of her death. I can be as political as the next guy and trust me I have profound feelings about (most) American politicians, but upon their death, I will not be shouting from the rooftops that I am glad they are dead. It’s just not my style. Would I say I disagreed with their politics? For certain. Would I say that I think they did a great disservice to their people in a variety of ways? Of course. But call me crazy, or human, but I would not wish them a swift passing into the confines of hell just because I did not agree with their policies (the exception of course is contributing to mass genocide). But hey, that’s me. As I said, Lady Thatcher is a very polarising figure and for many in this country she represents the fundamental thing that is wrong with government. And that I will leave to them; it’s not my country and I have a hard enough time making sense of the current Tory party to make room for feelings about their predecessors. [Although I can't help but wonder, if so many people hated her, who the heck voted her in and why was she in power for 11 years?]

But I will say, that as a feminist who thinks this world is still very much a patriarchal society that deems strong hard-lined women as ‘bitches’ and hormonal monstrosities, I appreciate that a woman ran this country that I live in for as long as she did and deem her a pioneer in politics as far as women are concerned (like her or not). Go ahead, curse my name from the rooftops for that sentiment.

On the other end of the spectrum the United States is mourning the passing of an icon that represented the days when things were saccharine sweet, and life was whittled down to a song, sung on a beach towel with a cute boy you fancied. That was the basic gist of any beach movie starring Frankie Avalon and Annette. Trust me, my sister and I loved them and used to watch them all the time. She was adorably cute, as was he, they both sang well, wore cute bathing suits and the worst thing that took place in the films was when Frankie’s hair got messed up when he took to the water to surf (although mysteriously, even that didn’t mess up his coif). Personally, I think the best part of that era was that you didn’t know too much about them aside from their image, which was poured over and guarded like Fort Knox. Annette was never photographed stumbling out of a club, was never caught in a scandal, and always seemed greatly appreciative and genuine as to her success and place in the Disney realm. She went on to become diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and I will say that even in the face of that, she handled it with a dignified smile and elegance.

The feminist in me can’t help but look at these two women and ponder the great differences in their constitution and contributions and how they were perceived because of it. One was at the pinnacle of power, was known to many for being ruthless, and was deemed made of iron - not to mention a whole host of other dark and ungodly things - due to her political machinations (their words, not mine). The other was heralded for her saccharine and innocently sweet constitution, a woman that no matter what age, looked adorable as she proudly held hands with a giant mouse. I can almost hear my Women Studies professor now on the opening day of class ruminating over this great divide; ‘this semester we are going to deconstruct the women of history and their place and affect on society. From the Iron Lady to a Mouseketeer!’

And may they rest in peace.