When I visited Taiwan, I met a Taiwanese artist who loved America.

From boyhood he had an enthusiasm for all things American. He had watched hundreds of American movies, listened to thousands of songs, studied books with prints of American paintings and worked hard in school to master English.

He excelled. His teachers praised his prowess. He had a keen memory and a gift for grammar. In college, he minored in English. He studied American literature and adored Walt Whitman, especially his poem “I Hear America Singing,” which was short and easy to understand. “I hear America singing,” it begins, “the varied carols I hear.”

By the time he graduated, he was confident that he could express his thoughts and feelings in words that Americans would understand. His professors assured him of his ability to comprehend spoken English.

Soon after college, he flew to America, landed in Los Angeles, passed through customs and then into the bustling public areas of the airport. His excitement was tremendous. He would hear America singing, the varied carols he would hear.

Suddenly, to his surprise, there in the airport, he spotted a McDonald’s restaurant, one of many shops within the terminal. He thought, “I must do this thing! I must have this great, world famous and typically American experience! I must enter McDonald’s and order a Big Mac, French fries and a Coke!”

He took his place in line. While he waited, he rehearsed what he would say. “Hello, Miss. Please, I would like to order a BigMac, French fries and a Coke.” He repeated these sentences again and again in his mind. He was nervous. This would be his first interaction with American culture. Being nervous is good, his teachers had told him. It is natural to be nervous. It makes you attentive and careful. Do not be afraid. Nothing bad will happen. He took a deep breath.

Finally, he faced the cashier. “Hello, Miss,” he said. “Please, I would like to order a BigMac, French fries and a Coke.”

“For here or to go?” she replied.

He blinked. What? he thought. “What?” he said aloud.

“For here or to go?” she repeated.

He analyzed the words. “For” is a preposition indicating the place someone or something is going to. “Here” means this place or position. “Or” links options. The verb “to go” was one of the first verbs he had learned.

“For here or to go,” he said aloud. He knew what the words meant but he was completely baffled.

“I am sorry, Miss” he said. “I do not understand.”

“Are you going to eat the food here in the restaurant or are you going to take it with you and eat it somewhere else?”

Again he blinked. He looked at the cashier’s face, trying to determine if she was joking. Why on earth would she want to know WHERE he was going to eat the food? Where WAS he going to eat it? He himself wasn’t sure. He hadn’t decided, hadn’t even thought about it.

If I eat the food here, he thought, something will happen. If I eat the food somewhere else, something different will happen. But what? Was there some surprise awaiting him? Some penalty or reward for eating the food in one location instead of another? He could not imagine what it might be.

People were waiting in line behind him. He must make a decision.

“Miss, I promise you,” he said solemnly, looking her in the eye to convey his earnestness, “I will eat the Big Mac, French fries and Coke here in the restaurant.”

He was worried. Would she think him trustworthy? What action would be taken if he failed to keep this promise? He looked around to see if he could spot the big, strong men employed to hold customers to their word, to ensure that customers, having promised to eat their food in the restaurant, would not, instead, secretly take the food out of the restaurant and eat it somewhere else. Perhaps it was shoplifting. He knew that verb from movies. He could spot no such men.

He paid for the food, took it to a table and ate it without incident.

“For here or to go.” He repeated the words between bites. He still had no idea why this assurance had been required of him but he was content. He was in America. Many things that were inexplicable to him at first would become clear later on.

“For here or to go ...”

He had begun to hear America singing.

In 1975 I wrote a setting of Walt Whitman’s “I Hear America Singing” for a community chorus in my hometown, Mansfield, Ohio.

To hear a performance of that piece by the Tampa Community Chorus under Tony Taranto, click on the link above.

To see a PDF of the score, click on the link above.