As a student at Georgetown University I had had a language requirement. Reach the intermediate level. That meant four courses. Not sure what intermediate means after only four courses, but then again much in the United States is inflated. Way back then. And certainly today.
I took the entrance exam per mail (snailmail, not email, no email back then). I was slotted into Grundstufe III. Let’s call it Beginners Stage Three. At Georgetown I didn’t care much for German. I was not good at it. My grades hovered around a C, at best.
However, my one class with Father Ron Murphy I enjoyed very much. Father Murphy grew up outside of Trenton, the capital of the State of New Jersey, not far from where I grew up. He was, and still is, a Jesuit. Harvard Ph.D. Since my days at Georgetown he’s written a handful of deeply-researched and deeply-insightful books.
Anyway, I recall him one day bringing into class a rifle, either real or nachgebaut (replicated), that was used back in the Revolutionary War. There had been skirmishes and battles in and around Trenton, including the famous crossing of the Delaware. Here’s what Wikipedia has to say about it:
“George Washington’s crossing of the Delaware River, which occurred on the night of December 25–26, 1776, during the American Revolutionary War, was the first move in a complex and surprise military maneuver organized by George Washington, the commander-in-chief of the Continental Army, which culminated in their attack on Hessian forces garrisoned at Trenton. Washington and his troops successfully attacked the Hessian forces in the Battle of Trenton on the morning of December 26, 1776.”
Father Murphy held the rifle in front of the class and proceeded to describe how it worked, while describing the overall context of the battles. I still recall the rifle itself, an impressive work of craftsmanship, and his description of how the cold weather had made the rifle malfunction, enabling Washington’s forces get the upper had.
And wait. I also remember the fact that the colonists, the colonials, were fighting against mostly German soldiers from Hessen (Hesse in English). After the war many of those young German men would remain in what became the United States, settling down in New Jersey.
And why not? I suspect that they liked the climate. They may have been excited to be a part of something new. There was plenty of land. The soil in New Jersey is good. Geographically it lay between the two largest cities, New York and Philadelphia. Young men. In their best of years. Most likely there were plenty of young lasses looking to start a family. And, I suspect, they didn’t have the cash to hop on a ship back to Hesse.
And who knows, maybe they liked the culture, the way people spoke, thought, worked, organized their lives. It turned out that those Hessian men would not be the first group of Germans to make their way across the Atlantic in search of a better life. My middle name is Otto. My mother’s father was Otto Hentz.
I am still in touch with Father Murphy. He’s in his upper eighties, retired, sharp as a tack, and continues publishing. We always have great visits when I’m in Washington. Intense conversations about language, the Germans, our Roman Catholic faith.
Let’s get back to Blaubeuren. Grundstufe III. I didn’t care what Stufe, level. I wanted to learn German. I was on the ground in Germany. Where Germans speak German. Where things are German. I wanted to jump in.
Jump in, yes. But never fully jump out. That’s because I learned very early that America was ever-present then in West Germany, and is today in all of Germany, in one form or another.
Part of our tuition for the language course included lunch tickets. One per day, five days a week. We could use them at a handful of the local restaurants. Main course and a drink. Schnitzel, fries, and a Apfelsaftschorle. Apfel, apple. Saft, juice. Schorle, spritzer. Apple juice spiked with Mineralwasser, carbonated water. Refreshing. And healthy.
One day I marched over to one of those restaurants with a few fellow students. We sit, order, wait for the food. One of the others pops up, goes over to the jukebox, and flips in a coin. An American pop song is played. ‘Funky Town’ by Lipps Inc. Here’s the description below the video on YouTube:
“Lipps Inc was an American disco and funk group from Minneapolis, Minnesota. The group was best known for the chart-topping 1980 worldwide hit single ‘Funkytown’ which hit No. 1 in 28 countries and was certified as double-platinum in sales.”
During my senior year at Georgetown one of my housemates, Pat Sheehan, sang parts of the tune all the time. So there I was, in a local family restaurant, in a tiny town nestled in the Swabian hills, waiting for my Schnitzel, fries, and Apfelsaftschorle, after having learned a little more German on that morning, and no more than five seconds into the tune and I was transported back to Washington DC, into that group house, a year ago.
Jumped in. But not fully jumped out.
I wanted to be in Germany. Not in the United States. That moment was a signal, an indication, a hint, of something that I would not fully understand until many years later. That I could never be just in Germany. That the U.S. would always be in me. No matter where I was or what I was doing or why.
And, that the U.S. would always be in Germany. In one form or the other. For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. Always?