My day job as a commercial writer (apart from my journalistic escapades) brings me closer and closer to Americana every day. Most of the action on the internet today hinges on American English, except for a few aficionados of the quaint ways.
I have always been a believer in the cultural aspects of a language. To capture the true flavor of a language, one needs to imbibe the culture that spawned it – if not all of it, at least in part. I grew up on Hollywood movies and British literature, an odd mix of conflicting swirls. The nuances of either culture flowed into my veins early on, looking for a vent to come out at a later stage. They are coming out now alright!
But to be able to write like an American, one needs to think like one. How is that even possible when I am sitting more than 12,000 kilometers away from America? I am not related to Niel Patel. I am no computer whizz. My 12-year-old son knows more about computers already than I ever will! No chance I’m getting a green card for a fancy IT job. Not in this lifetime. Nope!
So, I keep gorging on Fante and Bukowski and all the others who can give me a distinct taste of the American life. I scan everything from the Godfather series to The Peanut Butter Falcon, collecting cultural artifacts and roving all over the States from New York to Florida. I stop at Fargo on a detour, take a stroll in the heart of Yosemite, and wander off to Montana looking to smoke a peace pipe.
I do all that in my head. I want to be on the road like Jack Kerouac, gleaning every bit of Americana I can find between Utah and South Florida. But I am chained to my writing desk by unpaid bills and family.
My grandpa’s brother was a wanderlust. He saw many countries, almost all of America, and made a lot of money before settling for a quiet life in Calcutta. He would often say, “Don’t stay where you aren’t invited. You’ll wear out their welcome. If they invite you to be a part of their lives, by all means, stay!” So, I made it a point never to land in a new country as a refugee. I would call another country home only if I were invited to stay there. So, yours truly can’t really make it to the States, despite writing ceaselessly for American clients.
But I have to somehow manage thinking like an American and it’s not like in one of those B-grade action flicks where some Hong Kong actor posing as a Vietnamese points at a Dwayne Johnson image and grins, muttering something like, “Rock! My favorite! Your favorite? Naw! I kill you!” It’s certainly not my line. My line is more like:
I awaken about noon and go out to get the mail
in my old torn bathrobe.
I’m hung over
hair down in my eyes
barefoot
gingerly walking on the small sharp rocks
in my path
still afraid of pain behind my four-day beard.
That’s Bukowski, by the way. And I mix a bit of “The trick Mr. Potter is not minding that it hurts.” That one’s from David Lean’s Lawrence of Arabia. I mix the two – Americana and British floral potion – swallow the concoction and regurgitate a colorful goo that sounds just about right for most commercial work. The filigree I reserve for journalism and creative writing.
A very good friend once pointed me to the nuances of American small talk and how to include them in my writing. It’s the stuff you hear among the bleachers and drive-throughs, and I have a diary for them. They feed my writing when I am trying to get my point across to a large American audience.
I don’t want a Brooklyn chef or an Arizona wrangler to know I’m just a brown guy sitting in a tier-two Indian city, feigning to be an American. I have feigned accents for far too long in sweatshops called Call Centers and I failed miserably.
So, do I enjoy writing for my American friends, most of whom don’t know that I exist? Yes, I do! I do! I am infected with the writer’s disease and my love for American literature transcends borders and reaches out across space and time.
About the author
Hirak is an author, columnist, and activist from Durgapur, West Bengal.