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COLUMN ........................................... Amy Holtz The truth is, I’m a Minnesotan “These chillies look good,” I say to my mother-in-law, Pauline, as I lean into her greenhouse. My cousin, who’s over from Minnesota and abroad for the first time, nods. We’re in one of those villages on the other side of the Downs where people get blacklisted for spending less than four hours a day curating their hydrangeas. There’s a barbeque and complimenting the chefs - my parents-in-law - seems like a good way to get fed. “And we’ve got cucumbers. And tom-ah-toes.” Both look green and red respectively - healthy, as far as I can tell. Which isn’t much. “What?” My cousin says, wrinkling his nose and peering at Pauline across the lawn. “To-mah-toes.” “Huh?” “TO-MAH-TOES.” “Eh?” I step in here. “He’s messing with you, Pauline.” “No, I’m not. They’re ta-may-dohs.” He says. “Absolutely not,” she replies, voice high. “It’s TOM. T-O-M-AH-toes. And POT - P-O-T-ey-toes.” “No, it’s ta-MAY-dohs.” “Buddy, you’ve just expertly illustrated one of the reasons everyone hates Americans.” I look for my beer. “Hang on though,” I think aloud, stepping a safer distance from projectiles and pulling up my advocacy chair next to the Devil. “Why shouldn’t ‘tomato’ and ‘potato’ rhyme? They both end in ‘ato’. It’s just the first part that’s different.” The garden falls silent. I can sense her looking for, triumphantly locating then brandishing her trump - because we’re not the only ones with one of those to get rid of. “Because that’s English. You’re in England.” Now, it’s easy to lose track of how often someone says this to me when I’ve lapsed into North American - writing a ‘z’ somewhere, or saying ‘pants’, or ‘trash’, or ‘dude’ or even looking like I might enjoy and vocally celebrate winning stuff. Being corrected is a daily occurrence. So I know there’s really no coming back from this. As an immigrant my keen ears register a clank - likely the gathering of neighbourhood pitchforks - so I signal a retreat. My father-in-law waves his BBQ tongs at me. “When are you going to write about me again for that thing you write?” “Just as soon as you do something entertaining.” I say, rubbing my forehead, still trying to locate some alcohol. He looks at the tongs, as if they might give him inspiration. When they don’t, he wanders into the kitchen to find some more props. When he emerges, he’s got the ketchup and a gleam in his eye. “I’ve been really trying to hide my Americanness since I got here,” my 6’ 3’’ cousin confides. He looks confused. I don’t blame him. All you can do is hope, that after a considerable amount of time - say twenty years or so - when someone discovers you’re from ‘that country’, that they’ll think you’re one of the good ones and just feel sorry for you. “It’s not possible, man. Just keep your mouth shut and if you decide to open it, apologise a lot.” ....37....