America 51

by Corey Taylor

  I know a lot of Americans aren’t going to like what I’m saying, but it’s true. Sorry. I’m willing to bet you bullets to buttons that I’m out of the country more than most of you, and unfortunately, I see it all the damn time—American tourists walking around like they own the fucking place, talking loud, talking shit, complaining about EVERY GOD DAMN THING YOU COULD POSSIBLY IMAGINE, and doing so directly into the faces of the kind locals just trying to get through their day. There is a special sort of indignant arrogance that emanates from us that I can only compare to the fallout we’re still detecting in places like Chernobyl and Three-Mile Island, largely with the same devastating effects. We are the radioactive pricks of Planet Earth; I honestly can’t believe that places abroad don’t have detectors designed to go off anytime an American enters their establishments. Then again, they don’t really need them, do they? There’s an undeniable sound that gives fair warning way before it gets too tense in the stores, shops, restaurants, museums, and so on. That’s right, you guessed it: the sound would be coming from our big, dumb, petulant, sewer-smelling American mouths, and half the time the shit we’re saying is worse than the smell that’s on our collective breaths.

  “You don’t speak English!?”

  If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that at the table next to me in a restaurant abroad, I wouldn’t need to be writing this book—I’d have retired to my island by now. But you need to understand something first: it’s not the question itself. I’ve asked that question myself when the language barrier is a little too out of reach, but I’ve also followed that up with a smattering of my own crappy attempts at speaking the native tongue, whatever that language happens to be. No, no, this isn’t about the question itself but about the vile disdain behind it when it comes from someone who cannot possibly fathom that someone who doesn’t live in the good ol’ US of fuckin’ A can’t speak or understand English. Never mind that most of the world tends to be fluent in at least two languages (except our country because we don’t care). Never mind that most places have appropriate menus or people on staff who do speak English so that everyone gets what they want. Oh no, this is about the overwhelming entitlement that screams from almost every dildo who hails from in between Mexico and Canada on our North American continent. To these people, it’s a personal affront to some sort of mythic history they’ve created in their heads having to do with whatever the fuck they think the world owes America for services rendered. To them it’s amazing that anyone would have the audacity not to be fully functional in shitty English just in case the gilded cunts known as the Yanks come wandering for “whatever they call those things in Dubuque—you know, that place that always stinks of spices… a curry! Yeah, let’s all get curries! It’ll be fun!” To an American the rest of the world is basically just an extension of the United States. “Hell, we have military bases everywhere—we must own most of these places!” It’s kind of eerie just how misinformed and ignorant most Americans are. I’d say it’s surprising, but they elected the Cheeto, so the dead cat’s out of the bag on that one.

  I’m going to assume it has something to do with what we believe we contributed to the world wars, both I and II, as well as what people think has happened over the last thirty years as far as our foreign policy goes. Like I said before, I think a lot of Americans labor under the impression that the world owes us something—not that the world should be appreciative but that the entire planet owes us something because of our involvement in foreign affairs and conflicts. I’d wager a guess that they believe all the war movies: everyone’s getting their asses whipped by the big, bad bone daddies of the Axis or the Kaiser and his assholes, things look bleak for the world—UNTIL! Here comes Ameri-fucking-ca, ready to do some damage on fascists and foes alike, just in time to save the day. When all appeared on the verge of collapse, the Red, White, and Blue swept the field, rescuing every nation ever, because “fuck yeah, we did—we’re badass.” I’m almost sorry to do this because I hate bursting creative bubbles, but in this case the truth needs to be said. Yes, our country was invaluable in helping both war efforts, and without our assistance those conflicts might have gone on for god knows how long. But we weren’t the saviors of the planet; we did our part. We did what was necessary to try to ensure freedom in the world where it was welcomed. Yet so many other countries were instrumental in doing so as well. If you need more proof we’re not that picture you’ve painted in your head, take a gander back over your shoulder at the messes that were the Korean and Vietnam conflicts. Shit didn’t stack up in our favor on those. So everybody settle down on this whole “back-to-back world war champions” horseshit.

  Another misconception, in my opinion, is that with the exception of the “terrorist countries” (not my words), the rest of the world loves us and really looks forward to our visits. Sure, there are some countries who dig us, and even some of the places where we’re not exactly hugged upon landing will still treat us with a certain modicum of respect because they know that despite our loudness and rudeness, we’ll spend money on all kinds of dumb shit. That is right around where the hospitality ends, though. Perhaps that’s the way it needs to be, and why not, really? We have a knack for treating the world like a rug for our dirty boots. I’ve seen with my own eyes the way American tourists treat people. Wait staff are largely made to feel like slaves. Anyone who can’t fill a simple request gets the silent treatment while also bellowing for “a manager who understands what the fuck I am saying!” I’ve seen grown adults throw plates of food on restaurant floors all because one slight thing was wrong, all while loudly proclaiming, “I will not be paying for that!” Basically, we’re all the worst caricatures imaginable when it comes to what we think we can and will do. If you don’t believe me, just remember it’s going to be a while before people in Rio trust tourists in their bathrooms.

  It’s even worse when the people acting the most foolish are a part of the party you’re with yourself. I do my best to keep them in check, but most other people don’t, which frustrates the pure shit out of me. Would you let someone like that act that way in the States? No, FUCK NO, actually, and neither would local shopkeepers and owners. But that’s different—it’s domestic. Those owners know they’ll kick your ass out in a speeding frog’s heartbeat if you get your cock out of whack with them. Overseas it’s a little different. In most places tourism is the biggest source of income—what’s more, some of these cheese dicks know it too. So they take advantage of the hesitation because they know they have all of these poor merchants bent over a burning barrel. Why in the hell would we do that? Is it because we unconsciously think that’s what tourists and refugees do in our country? Is it retaliation for the “immigrant fear”? Do we reverse a perceived behavior, even if that behavior is an invented lie? Why would we spend the money, fly, check in, and go out and about just to play the role of stereotypical ass-hat American who has no chill whatsoever?

  Maybe it’s because we don’t know how to act anywhere that may or may not have an abundance of freedom. So subconsciously we act up in a way to “rebel” for people around us who “can’t.” I know, that sounds like a fucking cop-out, but honestly, I’m just spit-balling in an attempt to come to some other conclusion than “it’s because we fucking suck at almost everything.” There it is: I said the very thing I was trying so hard not to say. You, my kind and earnest reader, may not want to admit this to yourself, but brace yourself: being American doesn’t automatically make you awesome at everything. That may be what they teach us in our indoctrination—that is, school, TV, magazines, propaganda, and so forth—but that’s a sad fact of life. Yes, we hit the geographical jackpot when we were born here or, if you emigrated, came to the democratic version of the biggest and best mall in the whole fucking world. For the most part it’s fucking awesome here, and I wouldn’t change all that good shit for all the money in all the world. But just because we’re born American or work to become American, that doesn’t mean that the first time we step outside our borders we can act t
he fucking fool.

  Besides, it’s getting quite close to the point where we won’t be welcome in most places anymore anyway. The Cheeto keeps burning international bridges to find better spots for his fucking hotels and golf courses so we may be verboten in some of my favorite countries before you know it. The thought of not being able to go out into the world, whether as a visitor or a performer, really fucking depresses me. I am a vagabond spirit by nature, a restless traveler who only appreciates home when he’s tasted the air in different lands, broken bread at civil faraway tables, and picked the grit from distant roads from my shoes so as to not trample dirt onto clean kitchen floors. I live to learn new words and phrases and to experience the flavors of a thousand new foods in a million old countries. If I have truly been back and forth and reincarnated, this may be the only life I know where most of my giant blue-green marble is off limits, even if my intentions are innocent and my eyes soft. That is not how we bring the world together. Shit, that’s not even how you get yourself together. You’d never get to see the basilicas (or the only standing public statue of Satan—true story) in Spain. You’d never get to feel the wind whipping through the countryside of Great Britain. You’d never stroll the halls and smell the history of the galleries in France. You’d never feel the sand in your toes as you walk the dunes, looking at pyramids in Egypt or even the pyramids in Mexico or the other countries in South America. You’d never know the thrill of getting your first glimpses of Mt. Fuji as you speed on the bullet train in Japan. You’d never know the excitement of knowing—TRULY KNOWING—that those memories and sensations, while possibly familiar to other people, will never be identical to anyone else’s memories. Those moments are yours and only yours. These are your life’s fingerprints, splayed out before you, tracing the history of who we were, a gentle yet powerful reminder of our identity when we find ourselves lost in the battle between culture and history. This touchstone makes it easier to find our gravitas before we succumb to the gravity of any given situation outside our control.

  That may be another great reason why people tend to let their basest rudeness take over when they are far from home: they simply don’t know any better. It could be the way they were brought up—or lack thereof—or it could be a defense mechanism; I mean, I refuse to think that all people are fucked up. I cannot allow myself to give over to the assumption that just because you hail from the fifty nifty United States, that means you’re going to be a three-hundred-pound shit-heel in a soggy sack of suck-ass while you trot around the globe. Does that make me the hopeless romantic? Or am I simply in love with the romance of hope? Hell, I’ve been called worse. I’ve been heckled on both sides of the aisle by people who claim to follow Jesus and Buddha. I think maybe I’m just too metal for their negative magnetism. Oh please, make no mistake: I don’t have any plans to change my shit. Those people can take turns swinging from the undercarriage while they scrape the barnacles from my nuts. While they’re at it, they can pick that shit up and eat it for all I care. The point is that the best way to enjoy the world and all your travels is to know who you are first. If you’re still an uninterested spectator in your own life, how the hell are you going to enjoy being a spectator to the millions of resources this world has to offer? That shit, on its big, fat, moon-shaped face, just doesn’t make any fucking sense.

  There are places in the world where we are not welcome, this is true. There are spots on the map where the very thought of our existence is an insult to their way of life. I know that makes a lot of people nervous, but it shouldn’t. The simple matter is this has always been the case. The whole world is not going to love America, and historically, the whole world hasn’t. Ever since our inception there have been countries aligned against our interests. Such is life, to be fair. It’s like having a big group of friends. Chances are very great that at least two people in that group are not going to totally get along. Along those same lines, there are very good odds that not everyone will like you—there may be friends of friends who hate your fucking guts. This is just human nature. Now, on a national level, there are certainly regions of our own country that do not get along. So why would we expect the rest of the world to get along with us or even be our friends? I’m quite sure the only reason some of these countries talk to us is because if they didn’t we’d blow them the fuck out of whatever ocean they happened to be surrounded by, watching them sink below the waves as we whistled “Dixie.” Yes, we’re fucking dicks sometimes. We’ll get into that a little more later when we talk about foreign policy and shit like that, but it’s the truth. Just because you’re the toughest kid on the playground doesn’t mean you get an automatic invitation to everyone’s birthday parties.

  I was a latecomer to the whole “traveling abroad” thing. I didn’t even get on a plane until I was twenty-three, and that was because I was flying to Great Britain to make an appearance on my friend Stella Katsoudas’s first major label release, which she was recording at Peter Gabriel’s studio in Bath, about two hours outside of London. This was way before Slipknot was even a thing. To the people making her album, I was merely “some kid from Iowa she insists be on the album with her.” I’d been all over the United States as well as to Canada and to Tijuana when I was five, but I’d never left my terra firma, so to speak. I was quite excited but scared to death at the same time. This was years before 9/11, so things were more lax than they are now. I rolled onto the plane in steel-toed boots, a trench coat, dread locks, and a damn knife I forgot was in my backpack when I left. After some stares in my direction when we were delayed for “security reasons,” we took off, landing late into London Heathrow Airport. Little did I know that I was about to have a really shitty afternoon.

  I was told that when I landed I was to look for a driver who would be holding a sign saying, “Taylor—Studio.” I was sort of chanting that as I made the arduous journey known as “trying to get the fuck out of Heathrow Airport.” You may laugh, but anyone who’s been there knows it’s no fucking laughing matter. There are corridors that stretch on for fucking kilometers (we’re talking about the UK, after all), and twists and turns and roundabouts that will make you ready to punch a nun in the fucking face just to get to an exit. That’s all just trying to find Customs. Then it’s another goddamn sojourn to get to baggage claim. Then the final three kilometers are the hallway just to get to the outside lobby—not the outside itself, but the outside lobby. So basically it takes what feels like a week just to taste fresh air (or, in my case, to finally have a cigarette), and by the time I hit the outside lobby I was ready to fight, fuck, or flee. Then I remembered what I was supposed to look for: Taylor—Studio. I cast my eyes around and saw a kindly man with graying red hair holding that very sign. I sauntered over and assured him that I was the man he was looking for. He smiled nicely and introduced himself as Harry, sort of surprised. “Oh good,” he said. “You’re quite early!” Seeing as I was in fact late by thirty minutes, that should have been my first clue that I was making a mistake. But I said fuck it and followed him out to his car, searching for a quiet place to have a smoke.

  We packed up the standard-issue black sedan with my belongings and proceeded to leave the airport. We began talking a lot, and Harry began telling me all about the background of some of the places we were seeing, like the British Museum of Natural History, which is held in the building that used to house the Bedlam Hospital for the Criminally Insane, or so he claimed. Anyway, we’d been in the car about forty-five minutes when, in the course of our discussions, it became clear that, much to my chagrin, I was in the wrong fucking car. It turned out I should have been looking for more specifics on my own driver’s sign: I was to look for a sign that said, “Corey Taylor—Big Fish Studios.” Harry was looking for a Sean Taylor, to take him to BBC Studios. When we figured it out, we both laughed for a second, then got stuck because we weren’t sure what to do next. These were the days before cell phones (or at least before they were practical and affordable), and I had no way of getting ahold of anyone. So the o
nly thing I could think to do was have Harry drop me off at the offices of Stella’s record label so I could try to get ahold of someone connected to her management or production team. To be honest, the rest of it was kind of a blur because I was so fucking jet-lagged that I passed out on the couch in their waiting room, only waking up to give them information. After I had bid farewell to Harry and wished him luck on his own trip back to find Sean Taylor, I sat and waited for my own driver to pick me up. After a few hours he arrived, and we made off for beautiful Bath, named because of the natural springs that served as a spa and baths for royalty and the upper crust in ages gone by. That is a place I’d very much like to go back to someday.