The Summer I Wanted to Be American

In the cramped space where we relaxed by the campfire, its heat scorching our faces, I put the cowboy hat belonging to my favorite counselor on my head, like a charm that granted me style and confidence. After the counselors had finished their renditions of folk songs, they would give us – the young girls and boys of the camp –some time to talk amongst ourselves, before sending us off to our respective lodgings for the night.

At my request, my parents had sent me to spend a fortnight at an American summer camp in New York State’s Catskill Mountains. I was 14. My stay had just begun. I could stammer out a few words of English and understand about one sentence in five. But understanding everything others say isn’t essential anyway. Communication goes far beyond words, and we don’t listen to half of what people tell us in our own language, so what does it matter?

The air was scented with embers, white smoke, grass damp with night dew. It was the first time I had noticed her. My hat or my foreign accent, briefly heard, had drawn her attention to me, as if by magic. For her gang of friends, I had become a curiosity, a diversion for the evening. Her name was Jodie. A sharp-nosed brunette with almond-shaped chestnut eyes and a smile refreshing as a mountain spring, she was beautiful, friendly, carefree. Perhaps she said something, a compliment, a flattering remark; maybe I just believed I heard something, or perhaps it was all conveyed in her look, her gestures, her voice. I’m not sure, but I do know that when she took off my hat and put it on her own head, I was struck by Cupid’s arrow. Oxytocin flooded me, and I went weak at the knees, my legs turned to jelly – before Cupid was chased off by the demon who always seeks out the pure of heart, knife in hand.

That night, I returned to the wooden cabin occupied by our group of boys, the Quinnipiacs, in a state of ecstasy. I was in love, oblivious to the other campers, who all seemed straight out of Stand by Me. At their center was a River Phoenix type, the charismatic leader surrounded by hangers-on in various stages of arrested development. In their American personalities and the dynamics of the group, there was something much more clichéd and violent than what I was used to. They all seemed straight out of a movie: the counselors were beautiful, blonde and callow, just like the characters who get sliced up, disemboweled and decapitated in ’80s horror flicks. The head counselor, Todd, who always played guitar, had an enormous head, like Jim Carrey minus the funny faces and jokes. I wanted to learn how to play the guitar too, and a few of us would gather around him in the evening on the balcony to sing “Wish You Were Here” or “Stairway to Heaven.”

The Quinnipiacs were divided into the newcomers like me and the old hands, including River Phoenix, who gave the impression that they had suckled at the teat and learned to walk at the camp. They were always somewhat withdrawn, their circle apparently impenetrable. A tacit, secret agreement founded on mutual respect seemed to unite them with the counselors, who let them do whatever they wanted. River Phoenix’s gang occupied the entire ground floor of the cabin, while the rest of us, the second-class campers, slept in bunk beds on the second floor, next to the counsellors’ room, which was crowded with musical instruments, posters, books and audio cassettes.

The Crocodile Dundee-style cowboy hat belonged to Ryan, an Australian who had come to work at the camp during the summer. He hadn’t wanted to lend it to me for the rest of my stay, but I had found in him a kind of ally, someone I could count on if I had trouble assimilating. Todd was more taciturn. Standing a head taller than the other counselors, he never had to raise his voice when calling us to order.

I quickly became friendly with Josh, a Jewish boy from New York. He was vaguely interested in movies – not an expert like I thought I was, but it was better than nothing. He was interested in girls, too, and I was happy to make a friend who shared the same interests as me. He had a crush on Jane, a girl in Jodie’s group, the Windsongs. The two of them were good friends. Each of us had a romantic interest, and we talked about them while trying to understand what it would take to get closer to them. River Phoenix and his band of adoring wannabes didn’t seem that interested in romance; River apparently had a girlfriend back home waiting for him, whom he talked about with self-satisfied smugness. At night, in the darkness of the room, he told his disciples all the things she would do for him, after which the boys would jerk off in their sleeping bags. Needless to say, the rest of us, sleeping on the upper floor, were not treated to these erotic tales. I wasn’t interested anyway – my heart and mind were focused only on Jodie.

A few days later, the demon of impatience – the impatience of a pure, inexperienced heart – made me write a love letter. It was easy. I simply passed it on to Jane through Josh, who was looking for an excuse to approach her anyway. He and I figured it was a good idea. My message was laconic but straight to the point: “I like you, Jodie.” It was a huge step for me, an act of such extreme daring that I couldn’t think straight. All I had to do now was wait for her to come to me. It didn’t occur to me that an extra sentence, such as an invitation to go for a walk, might have helped in bringing us together.

I didn’t get a reply. We continued to cross paths every day, without speaking: early in the morning, at the mindless hoisting of the American flag, to which everyone except me swore fealty; in the cafeteria; and in the evening, around the campfire at the bivouac. I had to face the facts: she wasn’t interested in me. For my part, I no longer dared speak to her. I expressed my frustration to Jane, who had become a kind of confidante, but it didn’t change anything. Things didn’t seem to be moving forward between her and Josh, either.

Several days passed. One day, the girls and boys both went on a trip to float down a river on inner tubes. At one point, I found myself at the mercy of the current, but big Todd came to the rescue. It would have been a rather sad end if I had drowned there; after all, I still had to win over Jodie. When we set off back to camp in a minivan, she was seated on the bench behind me. During the silent drive – we were exhausted and many of us dozed off – Jodie’s hand reached out and caressed my hair. She continued to stroke me like that for almost half an hour. Love-drunk, I passively delighted in her touch, but I was also uncertain: what did her caresses mean? Were they a sign of friendly affection or something more? What would happen afterward? What should I do? Upon arriving at camp, we disembarked from the Econoline and she went back to her cabin as if nothing had happened.

The morning of July 4, our group’s counselors called us to an important meeting. We had to prepare something for the big Independence Day show happening that evening. There was a mood of general apathy among the boys, who kept their heads down, bored, unmotivated, lacking ideas. I had thought Americans would a bit more patriotic than that. We listened to a few lazy proposals, intended to make the others laugh, but it was going nowhere. Until I stepped in. I suggested that I could give a rousing patriotic speech in which I praised the United States. They realized that, coming from a foreigner, the effect would be heightened, powerful, even devastating. There was real enthusiasm for my proposal. I was truly willing to do anything to win Jodie’s heart.

River Phoenix and his gang wrote the speech for me. Like a cunning politician, I removed some overly complicated lines that I didn’t understand and added some sentimental, crowd-pleasing phrases of my own invention.

The acts that preceded me on stage, it must be said, made it easy for me to succeed, as long as I delivered my speech with passion and spirit. There were folk songs performed by little kids singing out of tune, straining their tiny vocal cords to the max. There was an unfortunate appearance by a nine-year-old George Washington in a strange wig; from a distance, she seemed to be wearing a corncob on her head. There were fireworks visible only as faint twinkling lights that disappeared as soon as they fell into the lake. And there was an interminable succession of speeches, each more tedious than the last, reminding us that the universe and its God ended at the country’s borders.

But the night was warm and bright, and the crowd of 400 happy campers were united by a kind of excited reverence, showing no sign of impatience. They could have been made to sit through a four-hour Latin mass that evening, so strong was their patriotic fervor. It affected them like an amphetamine. I was seated on the grass, likewise in the grip of strong excitement, my oration looming ever larger in my mind amid the collective exaltation. I had learned my text by heart, but from time to time I would take the folded paper out of my pocket and reread it, which failed to calm my nerves. My turn came. Dozens of hands slapped me on the shoulders in encouragement. I stood up, blades of grass still stuck to my pants, and headed toward the stage.

Before I had even set foot on the front of the stage, I was greeted with a chorus of yells when my name was announced. Carried away, as I arrived at the microphone, I jumped into the air, feet together, landing with my arms spread wide to rapturous applause. Nothing could shake my confidence now. The speech went off without a hitch: “As a foreigner, I have to admit that I am profoundly moved by the beauty of this country … I love its mountains … I love its people … I love its girls …” (I heard girls shouting out at this point). “I hopefully can become an American, because America is number one!” There was no shortage of applauding and cheering. The crowd went wild. There was a lengthy standing ovation, followed by admiring shouts of “Philippe!” here and there. I had stolen the show, the night, the trip, maybe even the summer.

Stepping down from the stage to ground level, I rejoined my crew, who bombarded with embraces and congratulations from all sides. A certain someone quietly hovered nearby, then sidled up next to me. Jodie didn’t say anything, but she knew what she wanted now.

The crowd broke up, each group returning to its log cabin. Jodie took my hand in hers as we followed the path back. It was as if I had swallowed a happy pill whose effects were now spreading throughout my young body like the best drug ever. We walked hand in hand, saying nothing, words no longer necessary. But beneath the surface of my joy, my feverish love, this eternal moment, there was still something unclear and imperfect. Evidently, I had won her over, but how? Through my sudden popularity, my grand gesture? And for how long?

The demon was waiting for us at the fork that divided the paths leading to the boys’ and girls’ cabins. Big Todd stood at the intersection, impassive and serious. In a solemn, commanding voice, though not without irony, he said: “You go there, and you go there!”

Jodie turned solemnly to me, looking into my eyes, her gaze asking something of me that I didn’t understand, or didn’t want to understand, at that moment. I was already delighted, stunned by this astounding turn of events. Holding her hand in mind was already a lot of emotion to process. And then there was Todd looking at us. I had never kissed anyone, and now we were being watched … She waited like that, for a few seconds, and finally I said goodnight. We set off in our separate directions.

Before I had even reached the cabin, I was gripped by a terrible sadness, understanding what she had expected from me, realizing what I should have given her, all too aware of the chance I had missed and that might never come again.

I was totally dejected when I rejoined the others, who were strangers to what I had just experienced, strangers to the torments of love. Their excitement before bedtime, their conversations, the congratulations they offered me, seemed profoundly insignificant to me. They gave me a hero’s welcome, while I was deeply disappointed in myself.

My awful premonition proved true in the following days. Perhaps simplistic fatalism turned my sinking feeling into a self-fulfilling prophecy, preventing any possibility of turning things around. Who knows? What was certain was that my dream was shattered. I was sure that I had let her down, and my feeling of failure was confirmed by the fact that she didn’t come back to me and no longer spoke to me. I still loved her, but passively, like a small wounded creature.

On the last evening, the Windsong girls and Quinnipiac boys gathered for one last campfire singalong that was sure to make the sentimental pain of separation and departure even worse. Everything unique about summer camp is crystallized in these evenings of farewells. It’s an intense concentration of the human experience, as you rapidly form new bonds, new friendships, new loves. Then, seated around the fire, singing “Wish You Were Here” or “As Tears Go By” for the umpteenth time, you realize you’ll never again see these people with whom you’ve been so close, day and night, and something dies in your soul. There are some for whom it must have been a release – the outsiders, the rejects, for whom this microcosm of society had brought nothing good, only wounds, humiliations, and a profound hatred of humanity, especially in groups. Today, perhaps they are banking executives, causing bankruptcies and forcing thousands of nameless people into the street, or maybe they own a firm with 20 employees in Palo Alto that will be worth $50 billion on the market in three months and is gearing up to ruin our lives by creating a new need for something we’ve managed perfectly well without until now. Personally, I was neither sad nor happy. There were boys in my group I was glad to know I would never see again. With Jodie, it was too late – we were leaving tomorrow and things hadn’t moved forward. If anything, I had lost ground. She was seated among her girlfriends, a few meters away from me. I glanced at her from time to time, but she didn’t notice.

As true capitalists of emotion, the Americans couldn’t just go along with the melancholy, nostalgic mood of the evening; they had to give out prizes, to reward and crown people, to create hierarchies and initiate us into meritocracy. There was an award for the best camper in the group, the one who had stood out by excelling while respecting others and demonstrating quietly inspirational leadership. Todd began singing the lucky winner’s praises, describing him and slowly revealing clues allowing the campers to guess his identity. I wasn’t listening, but the campers around me were speculating about who it was. River Phoenix’s name was tossed out at the beginning of Todd’s encomium, then replaced by another name, and another. Suddenly, all eyes turned toward me. My drifting mind focused again, as people clapped me on the back and congratulated me, while Todd looked at me, spread his arms, and said my name. I’d missed all of his big speech praising me to the heavens, but it didn’t matter. Surprised and delighted, I went up to collect my prize and Todd gave me a big hug.

That set the tone for what followed. Everyone was hugging everyone else in an orgy of embraces. The goodbyes went on and on. People said “Congratulations” to me, but I didn’t know what that meant. Why were they talking about “graduation”?

Jodie waited for her turn, then stood in front of me. She held me very tightly, for a very long time. She said something that sounded like “I love you,” but I wasn’t sure. I didn’t hear her right and I didn’t ask her to repeat it. That evening, we each went back our own way, to our respective cabins, with no Todd at the intersection to separate us.

What would I have become if I’d had the courage to kiss Jodie on the night of July 4? A calm, peaceful man living a calm, peaceful life in a calm, peaceful suburb? Thirty-four years later, in front of a small audience who had come to see my new film, Who by Fire, at Middlebury College, in the town of the same name in Vermont, I didn’t give a patriotic speech, nor did I say I wanted to become American in order to seduce someone in the room. Instead, I said Vermont should join Canada without further delay. The room broke out into thunderous applause and shouts of approval, like an outburst of relief. Something has evidently changed in the land of George Washington.

Translated by David Dalgleish.