Until recently, I lived around the corner from an Irish pub. It was sort of like having a neighborhood bar and I always found it good to have a quiet beer with friends there. The crowd is a working class crowd, unconcerned that the bar is sticky with forgotten pint glasses lying haphazardly about. There’s a feeling that all have put in a long day and are relieved to just relax. These people are the main reason that I like coming, no pretentious people dressing up special to look good. I always sense most of these people are who they seem. The wood paneled tavern is usually dark. Irish ballads play on the jukebox and compete with sports on six different TV’s. Like most taverns there are large mirrored advertisements for various beers on all the walls and this one has many references to Ireland, as well. Close friends sit on either side of me.

Conversation between all three of us is hard while bellied up to the bar, so I spend most of the time talking to both separately. Overhearing one holding some conversation with a man next to him, I immediately recognize the man’s Scottish accent. This fact certainly piqued my interest as I had been in Scotland earlier that very summer with my family. We traveled around extensively and I even had the opportunity to visit the ruins of my own namesake’s castle in the Scottish Highlands.

At the time, I leaned over to better hear what this man and my friend were discussing. The fellow seemed a nice enough and I became curious about where, in Scotland, he was from; about how long he had been in the States.

"Where are you from?" I ask.

Coming here to this pub always makes lets me forget the America outside, even if just for a moment. Conversation with some bloke from Great Britain is always a possibility, but usually I just have a few beers and think. Not today though, there’s an American lad next me and we exchange a few polite words. Things are fine, until his buddy sticks his nose over to ask where I’m from. There’s nothing more annoying than having to explain where my accent is from. Annoying because it always entails going through the usual pithy interplay about Scotland and what is like there.

"Scotland." I reply.

"Yeah, I know, but where in Scotland?" he asks.

I’m from a small industrial town, nothing special or particularly grand. When I tell people, the light in their eye goes out because they’ve never heard of it. Americans who want to know where I’m from are always expecting me to say Glasgow, or Edinburgh. Someplace they’ve heard of, or been to. I say that I’m from this small town and it’s like there’s nothing more to talk about. So I just cut to the chase.

"You’ve never heard of it."

"Maybe, I have"

"Oh? Well, aren’t’ you a wee smart cunt." I say and chuckle to my self at the grandiose little American who’s a geography whiz.

I went flush. I felt the heat of a red hue radiating from my head. The humiliation of being called such a thing was made worse before my friends. Humiliation quickly turned to anger. I broke into a string of nasty insults and the Scottish fellow wasted no time in joining in. I do not remember what we actually said as words were flying wildly from both our mouths. Fortunately, my friend stepped between the two of us and immediately the situation calmed. The Scot moved down the bar and we ignored each other.

I remember feeling particularly slighted because I had approached this man with the best intentions. I really wanted to identify with him on some level, mostly for reasons having to do with the confused heritage of being American. My roots lay in his country, and I want to know my roots past three generations. I’m not satisfied with just being American. I feel there is more to my story lying just outside my reach. I want to claim the world left behind by those who immigrated as partly my own. Whatever his opinions about me, I felt nothing called for that original insult. I can think of very few words constituting a worse insult to me than being called ‘a little cunt’. The gendered connotation of the insult certainly made it that much more harsher. I felt that not only was the Scot deliberately insulting me, he was mocking my manhood. As ridiculous as it sounds to me now, I felt that man was actually mocking my manhood. I experienced a strong desire to reassert it before my friends and I became aggressive.

Later, I retold the story to an English friend of mine. To my initial consternation, he only laughed. He then explained to me that ‘cunt’, is not so nearly the insult in England as here. He went on to explain that it gets kicked around sort of playfully between guys, much the way the word ‘asshole’ might be used sometimes in America. ‘Cunt’ is not exactly a compliment over there, but it certainly doesn’t have the same harsh connotation either. I thought about this and came to the conclusion that, if that man had said ‘smart little asshole’ I probably would’ve smiled and nodded. His explanation provided a major realization for, namely, that two cultures so close to each other on a continuum of cultures all around the world, might hold such subtle differences which produce gross misunderstandings.

I believe it is obvious that confusion over the pejorative term was immediately at fault in the argument that ensued. Still, underlying the entire argument were certain tensions that directly or indirectly contributed as well. I, myself, was invested in the interaction for reasons having to do with my own identity. Moreover, I already assumed before even initiating conversation that a connection existed between us. Having recently been to his country only intensified this assumption. At the same time, this man must have been experiencing his own tensions.

That he immigrated is without question, how he chose (chooses) to handle being immersed in a new culture is not. It is possible that the man is a ‘transmigrant’ and stays linked to social processes in the U.S. and Scotland. The extent of those links could vary widely. They are shades of gray. In any case, there is and always has been a strong pull for immigrants to assimilate into American culture. This pull provides a core tension between a native culture and an alien one. My own opinion, shattered by this incident, was that our two cultures were so close as to make understanding a given. I was also emotionally invested in reaching some understanding. The Scot’s stance was a skeptical and guarded one with respect to ‘understanding’. No doubt this skepticism had been borne out of experience. Though confusion over language was responsible for the insults exchanged, the underlying tensions on both our parts entirely set the stage for that interaction.

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