I never really thought about what it meant to be an American before yesterday, before someone on Facebook showed me.

I generally enjoy Facebook, regardless of how much I gripe about it. I interact a lot with friends, family, coworkers, participants of Letters of Love, fellow bloggers, and of course people who read the newspaper I work for. As much of a pain in the ass it can be — especially with this upcoming usernames business — it’s also a great marketing tool. I think I am just now starting to see the full potential of this website as a marketing tool. However, it’s also an international social networking tool, where old friends can connect, people can post photos of drunken bonfire parties — and where people can pass around their hatred like a high school bathroom cigarette.

I’m not naive. I know there are dozens and dozens of countries that, to put it lightly, don’t like Americans. They think we’re stuck up, rich bastards who only care about ourselves and drop bombs on random countries. Actually, I’m not even sure that any of them are sure why they hate Americans any more; at this point, the hatred has been handed down from generation to generation, so the original reason has completely faded.

I’m not naive, but I have been pretty sheltered from this kind of hatred. Oh, yeah, I’ve run into very racist people briefly, and yes it bothered me, but the encounter was so brief and was not directed toward me that I wasn’t really affected by it. That’s not to say that I’m nonchalant about racism. My firm belief is that it doesn’t matter what you look like or where you’re from. If you’re an asshole, then you’re an asshole. If you’re wonderful, then you’re wonderful. I only hate gas stations that don’t carry my ice cream or people who drive unnecessarily slow on the highway. I only hate when it’s cold or when I trip over something that doesn’t actually exist. So when I met Drago the dragon, I was a little taken aback.

I was busily taking polls on the LivingSocial app when I met this warm, friendly guy from Serbia. (That’s sarcasm, if you haven’t had your coffee yet.) The poll question was, “Should Taiwan be independent or part of China?” I voted independent, then scrolled down to see the comments. Drago was busy attacking anyone and everyone who was lucky enough to have the title of American — including minors. His word of choice? Whore. You were either an “American whore,” had the “eyes of a whore,” or, in my case, had “the four eyes of a whore,” for being American. I couldn’t help myself. He appeared to be only a couple years older than me from his profile picture, so I knew that he hadn’t even been around when we evil, whoring Americans dropped the Atom bomb (this was his biggest complaint, that we drop bombs). I knew that his hatred stemmed from his parents’ and grandparents’, friends’ and cousins’ hatred. I also knew that there would be no reasoning with him. A couple girls were trying to get him to let go of his grudge, but I knew that the effort was completely pointless. (Not that I can blame them for trying.) The girls were really sweet and, from their photos, I could tell they were a few years younger than me. Young enough that being called a whore could be considered sexual harassment, and could definitely be counted as breaking Facebook’s TOS.

When I came into the conversation, Drago the dragon and some other guys were having a field day with hazing Americans. The other guys didn’t want to talk to me, though. They probably had better things to do, like work or watch TV. Drago, however, did not have better things to do. Our conversation is as follows in the screenshots below. You have to read each pane from the bottom up, since new posts on Facebook always appear above older ones. The conversation really starts where I say I don’t understand why people hate Americans, and then I jump back on topic — since we were taking about Taiwan and China — and say that I think Taiwan should be independent because blah, blah, blah:

Page 1: Read from the bottom up

Page 2: Read from the bottom up

Please note that, at the time, my profile picture was a closeup of my sister and me. My eyes were pretty much jumping out of the picture, so I instantly knew that he was talking to me — especially when he called me four-eyes.

Of course, Drago the dragon didn’t know that I have years of experience being called four-eyes. He didn’t know that a cute boy named Emilio in my third grade class was the first to start, and that I learned very quickly how to deal with his teasing:

Emilio: Four-eyes!

Me: Yeah, four eyes to see what a JERK you are!

*stunned silence, then other classmates laughing at Emilio*

Drago was also kind enough to keep coming back and responding to my responses! No one else really does that on Facebook, because we’re all so busy with work and TV and all of that other stuff. Even now, my notifications tell me that he is still busy hazing other Americans with all of his non-American pals.

These American haters always forget one important thing, though: When their country is going under, we’re there to help. We constantly put aside all of our own problems (government, poverty, economy, etc) to help all of the other countries who hate us so much. I’m not saying we’re the coolest kids on the block, but we definitely are like a big brother or sister to every country out there. We’re the worldwide mama, taking care of everyone EVEN WHEN THEY DON’T WANT OUR HELP (which some people might call meddling, but hey, we’ve got good intentions)! About to get blown up by a bigger country? We’ll send our already exhausted troops over to save you! Just got crushed by a tsunami? We’ll send you food, water, and more troops to help clean up the damage! Stuck with a crazy maniac running your country, who executes people for so much as whispering that they don’t like him? We’ll bag him up and throw him in jail!

So yes, Drago, we may all be whores, but at least we’re whores who help.

This American whore also writes about her struggles with self-injury, chronic pain, and depression over at Scars Can Speak and runs a pen pal project for people with depression called Letters of Love. Come subscribe, join our Greeting Card Chain Letter, and start writing Letters of Love!