I’ve been back on American soil for 55 days now. About half of those days have been spent in The Debo and half have involved me criss-crossing the country. After the Bokuniewicz mania of the holidays subsided, my itchy feet were on a series of planes, visiting friends in LA, DC, and Seattle. While employment eludes me, why not enjoy my mother’s American Airlines benefits and visit the people sprinkled across the country that make me proud to be an American?
From coast to coast, during these 55 American days, I have been in a pretty continuous state of contemplation about the question that everyone likes to ask: What next, Anna?
My precise answer to this question will hopefully soon be delivered by way of organizations responding to my job applications. The vague plan is to see what it feels like to live in the US as a grown-up, to have a job without an expiration date, to savor a place/experience without the knowledge that my time in it is clearly limited.
[…that is if my Kiwi husband doesn’t show up on my doorstep…because if that happens, I will have to delay this whole American experience thing because I will be heading straight to Wellington, to bask in the glory of intercontinental romance and the love of my wonderful community of friends and acquaintances there…]
Giving this American life a shot is exciting in many ways, but it also feels really strange. Don’t get me wrong; America -- like everywhere else I have been in the world -- is an absolute delight in its own unique way. Great people, great place. Great. But, me and America? Can we see eye to eye?
On Saturday, I lounged on the couch with a classic cup of American filtered coffee and listened to “Wait! Wait! Don’t Tell Me!” and a lovely segment on Pete Seeger. I watched the snow fall through the same window from which I have been gauging precipitation, life cycles, and demographic shifts for over 29 years. I listened to “We Shall Overcome” and stories of the civil rights movement. And, all of this filled me with gratitude and amazement over the United States and the beauty existing beside the hardship.
America! You are so cool! Take me to your 30-something Pete Seegers!
On Sunday, I went to a lovely Super Bowl gathering – chips and dip, a low-stakes pool, beer games involving ping pong balls, a television, and potentially the world’s most wholesome family. I swooned over Bruno Mars’ hip swinging, gold-blazer wearing, instrumental entourage and talked about the coolness of the ‘12th man’ concept in Seattle.
America! You are so fun! Let’s unite over this weird game and catchy pop music!
Then, the great Bob Dylan appeared in that Chrysler commercial asking, “Is there anything more American than America?”
America. Humph.
I will resist the temptation to engage in the internet-world’s social commentary of this advertisement and that of Coca-Cola (…though I have no shortage of opinions…no shortage at all…) What I’m reporting on is how the incredibly stupid question of a great American modern poet rubbed up against my re-entry blues. I have transitioned to and from the US many times, so I tend to downplay the difficulty of the readjustment. But, despite the fact that this has become a regular practice for me, the hardness of finding my American footing never ceases to sneak up on me. It’s just that now it’s a bit of a snake in the grass. I mean, wasn’t I just celebrating America’s greatness?
The words from the Chrysler ad (stupid or not) were pretty inconsequential. (I will let you theorize about my mental dialogue regarding the American-ness of America and how the fist-pumping patriotism relates to me.) It could have been anything that set me off, really. Every time I come home, I have moments of highs about the good ole US of A, but I spend a lot of time stewing in unfair expectations of the country. I expect more social justice, more participation, more public transportation, more vitality, more quality radio, more impressive humor in the Super Bowl commercials, and more inspired Bob Dylan. It’s really easy to accept places that are not your own, and it is even easier to harshly judge the place that you call home.
On one hand, I feel that if we all expected more of America, we would be living in a more stand-up society. On the other hand, it seems like I should probably cut America some slack and focus more on the positives of Pete Seeger, the civil rights movement, pretty snowfalls, and my awesome friends. When I was 19, a very wise man told me that “the secret to life is to have no expectations.” So, from this moment on, I’m trying to take America for what it is, not what I think it should be. To counter Mr. Dylan with an equally stupid but potentially suitable statement: America is America after all.
