Iceland review - 2007, Síða 98

ICELAND REVIEW 23
These are no ordinary school children. These students, raised on
cake and codfish, are the progeny of the nation’s upper echelons,
bred pure into Rockefeller-caliber ambition and acuity. Unwittingly
I feel a pang of antagonism coming on but swallow it down.
“Actually,” I begin, with humility and poise, “I’m American,” and
launch into the dry pages of Aspects of Britain and the USA.
Verslunarskóli, or Versló as it is affectionately called, is wedged
between Kringlan shopping mall and Reykjavík University – a bas-
t ion of Iceland’s aff inity for consumerism and commerce. Among its
illustrious alumni are the wunderkind of Icelandic business: the
CEOs of both Kaupthing Bank and Glitnir Bank, Baugur business
mogul Jón Ásgeir Jóhannesson, and the maharajah of Icelandic entre-
preneurialism Björgólfur Thor Björgólfsson, Forbes’ 249th richest
man in the world.
Over the last ten years Iceland has burst onto the international
stage under the f lashing marquee of f inance and investment banking
with all the pluck and sparkle of Shirley Temple in tap shoes. And the
crowds are throwing down their cash hand over f ist. This sudden
attention and inf lux of wealth has given rise to a new bourgeoisie in
the heart of Northern Europe’s little starlet. In this ostensibly socialist
nation – a one-time stronghold for Nordic egalitarianism founded by
fishers, farmers and a strong distaste for autocrats – a new class system
has emerged with bankers and entrepreneurs f loating to the top of
the privileged, moneyed stratum. And the children of privilege gravi-
tate towards Versló like Muslims to Mecca.
Midway through the first paragraph I look up from the textbook
to find 25 pairs of eyes hanging on my every word. What unglues me
is the fact that the students are not only diligently following along
with every drab sentence, but they do so with backs straight, pensive
expressions, jotting down notes.
We finish the allotted text for the day early, the class having gobbled
up every morsel of knowledge. I ask them what they would like to
discuss for the remainder of the period, half expecting them to beg for
a supplementary lecture on the House of Lords. But to my surprise
the students want to talk about television and celebrities. Our con-
versation eventually meanders into the topic of slang and a wave of
excitement passes over the class, prodding me to make a lesson out of
it with a glossary.
Although I f ind it amusing, there is something colonialist about
my efforts: the erudite sahib of American imperialism coming to fill
the heads of the Nordic rajas’ promising children with New World
rhetoric and the secrets to decoding hip-hop lyrics. The kids ada mantly
try to memorize nearly three decades of slang, furiously scraw ling down
the colloquial ghettoisms of my Waspy upbringing as fast as I write them
up on the board:
bling – ostentatious, hip-hop inspired jewelry
gadonkadonk – a beautifully large booty, complimentary
getting crunk – a portmanteau word fusing “crazy” and “drunk”
Without any introduction, without so much as a knock, the new
world order slips into the room and makes itself at home in the smile
and bright eyes of each Icelandic teen learning American ghetto-
speak. I want to tell them that the Zeitgeist of modern Iceland does
not have to revolve around Brangelina and pop-tarts. I have so many
good intentions for them and the nation they will grow up to lead. But
I am just the foreign language teacher. And the bell rings.
Somewhere a donkey puppet is laid to rest.