My Indian Elvis in Africa

Elvis is not dead. He’s alive and well and – for a short time only – performing concerts in Johannesburg.

Last week, Roger and I went with the fam to see the King – live and in person. Now, I know you’re skeptical (as was I), but I’m telling you; it was amazing. He started with Jailhouse Rock and sang everything from Amazing Grace to Suspicious Minds to In the Ghetto to Hound Dog. It wasn’t until intermission that a friend at our table asked the group if we could tell that Elvis was Indian. An Indian Elvis? I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed. But with the voice and the costumes and the atmosphere (and the wine, of course), our Indian Elvis could have been the real deal. By the end of the night we were dancing in the aisle and singing along, and I was laughing so hard my sides hurt (this, in part, due to my husband’s ‘Elvis face’).

But when Elvis sang An American Trilogy, I wasn’t laughing. In fact, midway though the song I felt tears on my cheeks, and they weren’t tears of laughter. I must admit, the tears took me by surprise. I have as much Southern pride as the next girl, but I’m hardly one to get all emotional about it. I’ve certainly never cried during "Dixie" in the past. So why the tears?

As my Indian Elvis continued to sing about the Southland, it started to make sense. The tears weren’t because "his truth is marching on," no, the tears were for the sense of familiarity the song stirred; for the dozens of times I’ve heard it played at Stone Mountain’s laser show; for the sense of pride in a song about my home. And for just a moment, I could almost pretend I was surrounded by other Americans feeling the same way.

Hearing An American Trilogy in a place so very far from my home was both painful and comforting at the same time. It was painful in that I was suddenly overcome with a longing to be home, to be sitting on the lawn at Stone Mountain on a hot summer night. But hearing the song was comforting too. It was comforting to feel intensely connected to a place so very far away. The song ties me to my home, and hearing it reminded me to take pride in where I come from.

I don’t mean to be melodramatic, but think about it. When you hear the national anthem at a baseball game, I’m sure you feel some small sense of patriotism. You stand in respectful silence while the song is played, but as soon as it’s over, you go back to your conversation complaining about the economy or the war or interest rates or politics. But if you were to hear that same song in a different environment – somewhere thousands of miles away from your home, surrounded by people that don’t share your American heritage – well, suddenly, that song takes on a hell of a lot more meaning.

It doesn’t have to be a song. It doesn’t even have to be something patriotic. It’s anything that reminds you of home. And even beyond that…it’s anything that ties you to something or someone you love. And when that something or someone isn’t around, you cling to whatever it is that strengthens your bond.

For me it’s a song; it’s CNN; hell, it’s even Sportscenter. It’s listening to the Bert Show online. It’s wearing my Vanderbilt Alumni t-shirt or Nikes with my jeans (both very American by the way). It’s holding onto my American accent (despite being made fun of for my ‘twang’). It would be easy to fall into the South African vocal inflections and phrases; it would certainly make communicating a bit easier, but I’m resisting. It’s saying to cashiers and waiters, "Have a nice day." It may be an American cliché to them, but it’s a custom in my part of the world, and I don’t want to abandon it.

Nothing makes you feel more American than living in a foreign country. The phrases, the fashion, the accent, even the attitude – you become hyper aware that the things you say and do every day without thinking make you DIFFERENT from everyone else. They make you American.

I’m American, and in America, that doesn’t always mean much, but here it’s a huge part of my identity. It’s the first thing people know about me, usually before I even open my mouth. I’m introduced as Robyn-the-American.

You can’t always choose what defines you. You’re the funny guy, or the nice girl, or the jock or the drama kid or the mom or the rich guy or the housewife or the single friend or the workaholic or any one of the thousand other identities we use in an attempt to neatly categorize the chaos. We do it instinctively. We can’t help but create labels, assign titles. And now that I live in South Africa, I have been neatly categorized as “the American.”

We can embrace the identity we’re given or reject it, a decision usually influenced by the popularity of the given title. Nobody wants to be the nerdy guy or the fat chick or the dumb kid. Those labels don’t command much respect, but to be honest, neither does my newly designated title. It would be almost understandable if I chose to distance myself from this identity, seeing as – newsflash – Americans aren’t all that popular with the rest of the world. Instead though, I find myself clinging to my American-ness…because it connects me to a place I love.

When I was younger and going to school in England, I remember being embarrassed by the reputation Americans had for being too loud or too demanding, too arrogant or even too friendly. I rolled my eyes at the "typical tourists" when I saw them on the train or at the pub in their baseball caps, laughing too loudly and insisting that surely the bartender could get them a Bud Light.

Now that I’m older, I wear my "Americanisms" with pride. It’s a delicate balance though, to respect a culture and embrace its differences without abandoning the little things that make up who you are. So while I’m immersing myself in South African culture, I’ll continue to say "tom-AY-to" and "y’all." I’ll cry at patriotic songs. I’ll wear my UGA football t-shirt with pride. It’s a way to hold onto my home, my past, my pride. It’s a way of saying, “I may be here, but I still love it there.” My tears at the Elvis concert reminded me of that.

Who knew that an Indian Elvis in Africa could make me feel so close to home?