My first few days of orientation in London passed in a blur of 16-hour jet-lag-induced naps, cars on the wrong side of the road, strangely shaped electric plugs whose heightened voltages fried at least one of my American appliances and a comparative abundance of doors that have pull-handles installed confusingly on both sides. Then, when I got to Oxford, I unwittingly missed the induction for new music students because that was the time when I had scheduled all my music auditions for the different ensembles in all the colleges.
The first British choral director I auditioned in front of was a guy from the Royal College of Music who looked exactly like conservative former campus personality James Montana ’08. Yes, it was definitely James I saw, despite his outspoken views in favour of Barack Obama as the man to win the American election. He also told me that I sight-read music surprisingly well … for an American singer. Ouch. Even though James’s doppelgänger did end up offering me a spot in his chamber choir, I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered by his comment or feel like the Yankee fool that I’m sure I look to every Briton who has laid eyes on me since I arrived.
I certainly looked the fool again just last Friday when I discovered that the other new tenor in my chapel choir at Exeter College was a fellow Yank. His accent (which I took to be British) is nearly identical to that of a certain Indicating, bandana-wearing, Indiana Jones-impersonating intellectual who you can observe ambling around Amherst campus nowadays. Not only that, the guy in my Choir has folks who, funnily enough, also hail from New Jersey! Coincidence? I think not. My own Midwestern accent seems especially garish compared with the exaggerated aristocratic diction of both Exeter Chapel Chorister Guy and Indie junior-junior.
Speaking of garish accents, an indirect but interesting result of the recent election has been that British people — upon hearing my Sarah-Palin-esque brogue — go out of their way to congratulate me on her defeat at the hands of Obama, in a manner something like the way you would congratulate the proud father of a firstborn son. Oh well she had it comin’, doncha know, I say in reply.
Election results are all very good and well, but studying abroad at Oxford has helped me acquire important knowledge and life skills. Like how to turn on my best backwoods Wisconsin drawl, coupled with a look of innocent cluelessness, to elicit maximum sympathy from middle-aged British matrons on the street whenever I can’t figure out bus schedules, British currency or conversions between Celsius and Fahrenheit temperatures. This twee but tried-and-true shtick even earned me a free apple strudel dessert from the married couple sitting next to me in a café one day when I was fumbling with the British tea cakes the waitress had just set before me.
My stay at Oxford has also given me the one practical piece of knowledge I will ever need for the rest of my life: in choral evensong a few weeks ago, I discovered the song that I want sung at my funeral when I die. Its premiere performance marked the funeral of a Spanish king back in the day, and its emotional/musical content is, I have to say, a cut above the maudlin marmite self-pity of “Don’t Think Twice; It’s Alright.” But you don’t need to take my word for it. Especially if you happen to be one of the straight, white, privileged patriarchy-heirs I had previously mentioned, so abundant at Amherst, and even more so here at Oxford. Pitiful times.