As an American, I grew up hating England. All right, perhaps that is an overstatement. After all, I have never been especially motivated by hatred, and to be sure, for a long time I didn’t understand England. But certainly much of what I learned about England, while I was growing up, was negative.
My history textbooks told me that many of the Britons who had settled America did so because they were persecuted back home. So they fled, braving the many perils of a voyage across the Atlantic Ocean to settle here. They could bring little with them, and consequently their lives were hard: many of the settlers died of illnesses, exposure, or exhaustion. Once the survivors built homes for themselves and cities in which they could finally make their lives a little easier, redcoats arrived demanding that the poor settlers pay onerous taxes to England or face imprisonment, even death. This oppression grew so terrible that eventually the settlers were forced to band together and make war against their former homeland, all so they could live out their lives to preserve the liberties that are every person’s due.
Nor did the fiction of my youth inspire much love for England. The TV channels played little in the way of enjoyable British shows, and of the books I remember reading, while some may have been written by British authors, none inspired me with a love for their country. I remember Dickens’ miserly scrooge, stories of orphans and poor families eking out an existence in a cold and harsh London, and novels about European countries constantly torn apart by the ravages of war. Movies portrayed kings who beheaded their wives, who fought against the Church, and who continually conspired against their neighboring kings in order to increase their own power.
With High School and College, increased knowledge brought greater understanding. I came to understand that the various wrongs committed throughout time, regardless of the country in which they occurred, are driven by the foibles of human nature. There are no superior races or countries, only ordinary individuals who may strive to achieve greatness by significantly benefiting the lives of those around them. But still, I possessed no idea of what England was like, nor why I should visit it to find out. And why should I have? America is a vast nation, comprised of more states and cities and regions of extraordinary natural beauty than most of its citizens can hope to visit in a lifetime. What could England possibly offer me that could compete with the greatness of America?
It wasn’t until after college and marriage, and immersing myself in creating the future pattern of my existence, that English Fiction began to seduce me.
To read the remainder of this blog entry, check out tomorrow’s post: A Journey into English Fiction: Part 2.
My history textbooks told me that many of the Britons who had settled America did so because they were persecuted back home. So they fled, braving the many perils of a voyage across the Atlantic Ocean to settle here. They could bring little with them, and consequently their lives were hard: many of the settlers died of illnesses, exposure, or exhaustion. Once the survivors built homes for themselves and cities in which they could finally make their lives a little easier, redcoats arrived demanding that the poor settlers pay onerous taxes to England or face imprisonment, even death. This oppression grew so terrible that eventually the settlers were forced to band together and make war against their former homeland, all so they could live out their lives to preserve the liberties that are every person’s due.
Nor did the fiction of my youth inspire much love for England. The TV channels played little in the way of enjoyable British shows, and of the books I remember reading, while some may have been written by British authors, none inspired me with a love for their country. I remember Dickens’ miserly scrooge, stories of orphans and poor families eking out an existence in a cold and harsh London, and novels about European countries constantly torn apart by the ravages of war. Movies portrayed kings who beheaded their wives, who fought against the Church, and who continually conspired against their neighboring kings in order to increase their own power.
With High School and College, increased knowledge brought greater understanding. I came to understand that the various wrongs committed throughout time, regardless of the country in which they occurred, are driven by the foibles of human nature. There are no superior races or countries, only ordinary individuals who may strive to achieve greatness by significantly benefiting the lives of those around them. But still, I possessed no idea of what England was like, nor why I should visit it to find out. And why should I have? America is a vast nation, comprised of more states and cities and regions of extraordinary natural beauty than most of its citizens can hope to visit in a lifetime. What could England possibly offer me that could compete with the greatness of America?
It wasn’t until after college and marriage, and immersing myself in creating the future pattern of my existence, that English Fiction began to seduce me.
To read the remainder of this blog entry, check out tomorrow’s post: A Journey into English Fiction: Part 2.
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