I’m an Oxbridge graduate in my twenties and a native speaker of a Romance language. I’m a citizen of nowhere rather than somewhere, and two years ago I moved to the United States. I could be the illustrated dictionary’s definition of a Remoaner. And I am.
So why is it that, whenever I have a proper conversation with a liberal, knowledgeable American who criticises the idiocy of leaving the EU, I find myself leaping to the defence of Camp Brexit? For a few minutes, mid-conversation, I’m manning the barricades of Thanet with Nigel Farage, throwing real ale at the Provençal set.
Except that, being British, I don’t dare voice my objections. I nod and smile while the repute of my country is crushed like a bulldog sat on by a bison.
“The referendum was only advisory,” my well-informed American interlocutors remind me. “The choices for the voters were too vague,” they say, going on to add, “Britain should have a People’s Vote on the deal itself.”
These are also the standard lines I trot out when discussing Brexit with a Brit. So why is it that am I so put out when an American presents these very same views to me, usually with more passion and eloquence than I do?
It’s not because I’m especially patriotic – I’m a citizen of nowhere rather than somewhere, after all – and nor is it because I disagree with their tone. I’ve vented in much the same way plenty of times.
It’s because (whether it’s the latest case of overblown political correctness, or the folly of Brexit), in a fundamentally British way, I don’t like being lectured. We may be a nation deferential to the authority of our social superiors – think of the Victorian novels full of humble country folk wanting to be “more cultivated” – but we also have a rebellious side to us, one that people often forget.
Think of our satirical tradition – the prints of Hogarth, the cartoons of Punch and the puppets of Spitting Image – all of them lampooning and lambasting the out-of-touch elite. And for all their liberté, égalité, fraternité, we killed the king a century and more before the French.
If I say anything to counter the liberal American anti-Brexit position, it’s that the EU urgently needs reform, that the UK is far too London-centric and that the elites got away with the banking crisis almost scot-free. But despite these views seeming to lend weight to the idea of Brexit, all three can be held by a moderate Remainer.
“Why did they [the Leave voters] think America would put them at the front of the line [sic] for a trade deal?” I’m asked, rhetorically. “You’re meant to be a nation of animal lovers,” they continue. “Did you not realise any trade deal is going to involve importing chlorinated American chicken?”
Speaking of trade deals, Barack Obama’s intervention, which came two months before the vote and urged Britain to stay in the EU, was the low point of the Remain campaign’s uninspired fearmongering. After writing a column in the Daily Telegraph, he confirmed at a Foreign Office press conference that, when it came to a trade deal, “The UK is going to be in the back of the queue.”
Now there could hardly be a cooler, suaver, more inspiring American president, nor one with greater clout with the British public. But Obama’s interference thoroughly annoyed me. Even though from the start it smelt of a diplomatic favour to David Cameron (it was later confirmed that it was), Cameron’s inner circle clearly thought Obama’s views would carry weight with the British public. As a dyed-in-the-wool Remainer, I can safely say they did – they made me sympathise a little with the Brexiteers. Here was someone with no jurisdiction meddling in our affairs. Sound familiar?
My feeling towards Americans disparaging Brexit is the politico-cultural equivalent of the social norm that says I can insult my mother, but you can’t.
So I get it when Leavers say they are tired of experts talking down to them. I’m annoyed by the sermons, and I’m a believer.
Ultimately, however; I remain a Remoaner. Except when well-informed Americans agree.
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