LONDON—“Would you say that you’re proud, then, to be an American?”

This question, from a friend here in London who used to live in the U.S., took me by surprise. My first reaction was a reflexive “Of course”—I couldn’t, off the top of my head, think of any other nationality I’d rather be.

To try to justify my answer, I ran through the standard list of American accomplishments—helping the Allies win both World Wars, being the birthplace of modern democracy, leading the Free World in the Cold War. Above all, I said, I was proud that America was seen abroad as the Land of Opportunity, the country to which millions of people migrated in the last two centuries because it promised everyone a reward for hard work, a better life for their children. As Bono said on Class Day, as a young Dubliner watching America put a man on the moon, he believed that nothing was impossible here. Foreigners respected and admired Americans.

But as I said this, an uncomfortable feeling nagged me in the back of my mind. Most of these accomplishments took place decades ago. And though my personal impression of the U.S. has been quite positive, it is disheartening to see that, especially in recent years, many people abroad don’t share this view of a friendly, benevolent America.

Instead, America is increasingly seen as the arrogant bully of the international community. Hearing that hundreds of protesters had shown up in front of President Bush’s hotel in Gotebord, Sweden, to bare their behinds at him did not square with my image of America.

The U.S. wasn’t always seen this way, of course. President John F. Kennedy ’40 was adored across the world. There are stories that still won’t die about tiny huts in Latin America that had two pictures on the wall—one of Kennedy, the other of the pope. Dwight D. Eisenhower was widely hailed as a master diplomat and conciliator, not least by Europeans. Even Ho Chi Minh based the Vietnamese Declaration of Independence on the American model.

Those images make me, as an American, swell with pride.

But those are not the dominant images today. Much more common is the sight of Osama bin Laden’s armed assailants shooting at pictures of Bill Clinton or the picture of a destroyer with a gaping hole in its side. It is too easy to see the increased antipathy towards the U.S. in the Middle East. But these are only the most violent manifestations of a more widespread anti-American feeling.

The French have long led the war against globalization and American unilateralism. They’re famous for trying to protect their culture, and particularly their language, from outside encroachment. They loathe the fast-food restaurants replacing sidewalk cafes, and they cannot abide the arrogant Americans who can’t seem to call slices of potatoes des frites instead of, ironically, French fries.

There have been renewed calls in Japan for America to withdraw its military personnel. Europe and Russia are dismayed by our missile defense plans, and some European countries are even more disturbed by the sheer cavalier attitude with which we brushed aside the Kyoto Protocol on global warming. This is particularly startling coming in the beginning of an administration that promised a more humble, less arrogant American attitude abroad. It is now clear that was simply code for less intervention, not a real commitment to treat other countries as partners.

Even here in England, our closest allies feel that America often acts like a selfish child. Americans never gave due credit to the Russians, British and others without whom the Allies could never have won two World Wars, they say. Now America is reluctant to put its soldiers under any other nation’s command, in NATO or in the UN—though of course the U.S. is quick to demand control of other nations’ forces.

And there is a distinct cultural resentment in this nation, which was a worldwide empire when America was a farming colony. Today, America dominates Britain (and the world) not with arms but with economics—McDonalds, Burger King and KFC seem to be more omnipresent in London than in Boston.

Of course, some of this antipathy is unavoidable. With the U.S. predominant on the international stage, some level of resentment of our power is natural and expected. America cannot be all things to all people, nor should it try.

But even so, it is alarming that this perception of U.S. arrogance is almost universally shared. Our enemies have long denounced the “arrogant American imperialists,” but it is quite a different matter when our allies feel the same way.

And that makes it very, very difficult to be proud to be an American today.

Because of this resentment—some of it justified, some of it inevitable—America must make an extra effort to reach out and engage other nations, other peoples, in decisions that affect the world. We can never put other nations’ interests wholly above our own, but we can realize that other nations’ priorities and attitudes do and will affect us. We must be more active in international institutions like the UN, but we must not demand full control as our price for participation.

If we arrogantly believe that we can never fall from our superpower position, that will only hasten the inevitable. And when America turns to other nations for help, they will be unlikely to show much sympathy if they only remember a selfish, self-aggrandizing nation.

I am confident that the U.S. will eventually reverse this recent trend towards unilateralism. I think that, deep down, we realize that we don’t have a monopoly on wisdom, that we can learn from other nations. And most of all, I truly believe that Americans care about the problems that afflict not only themselves, but others across the world. In the end, that’s what makes me proud to be an American.

David M. DeBartolo ’03, a government concentrator in Lowell House, is associate editorial chair of The Crimson. He is spending the summer in London whilst he works for a member of Parliament.