In Praise of America

“The world in which you were born is just one model of reality. Other cultures are not failed attempts at being you: they are unique manifestations of the human spirit.”
- Wade Davis

Yup. I never thought I’d say it. But I miss America. Like crazy. About a year ago I left the U.S. with barely a tear in my eye. I was ready for a new adventure. I wanted to go where there was grassroots action taking place- a more visible revolution. I was looking forward to becoming fluent in Spanish. I thought life would be easier here- simpler. After two years in Washington, D.C. I was ready to not concern myself with my resume, schmoozy happy hours, Burberry bags, extreme perfectionism, ego-mania and living in the shadow of our two-party system- conservative and more conservative. I was finally fulfilling my dream of living in Latin America.

And I got much of that. When I arrived, Mexico City’s main plaza was chockfull of squatters protesting their claim of the fraud in the July 2006 elections. While I’m no native speaker, my Spanish has improved by leaps and bounds and I feel quite confident communicating. In anticipation of returning to the US this upcoming New Year, I recently dusted off my old resume to start updating it. I hadn’t touched it in nearly a year. I haven’t been to a happy hour, much less seen anything about networking since I’ve been here. And the only plaid I’ve seen is at the fayuca, the local pirated market where you can get the entire series of Lost for less than $15, a contraband Abercrombie shirt, the new Gwen Stefani CD before it even hits the stores in the US, and of course, your very own “Burberry” plastic bag.

I also got a lot more than I bargained for. I haven’t seen my emotions aboard such a roller coaster since my pre-teen days. I made some amazing friends with whom I’ll always share a bit of this crazy adventure. I learned the ins-and-outs of worker organizing in a Mexican context. I have seen tremendous poverty and marvelous wealth. Geographically speaking, I can say I know more of Mexico than I do my own country. I eat the freshest fruits, and ripest vegetables daily. I’ve learned to be in touch a little more with my vulnerable side and I now am better at alone time than ever before. Much more than I ever bargained for.

But the truth is, I miss America. I miss our kind of friendliness and openness. I miss trusting nearly everyone I talk to since honesty is a strong cultural value. I miss people talking loudly in public and laughing heartedly. While I don’t miss the political direction our country is taking, I miss understanding the intricacies and having any number of friends to talk about it with in detailed, interesting, thoughtful and educated ways. I miss the extreme displays of wit and irony, and the virtue of making a fool of yourself to squeeze out a laugh from your friends. We are a passionate people. Maybe we don’t show our passion by making out in the public park or dancing at every party, but we love to perform, laugh and demonstrate our excitement, curiosity and love for life. I miss my people.

Diversity. My people are diverse. My family tree alone is filled with English, Danes, Swedes, Hungarians and Scots. Growing up my neighbors’ ancestral heritages were German, Mexican, Czech, Polish, English, Nigerian, Singaporean, Japanese, Samoan, Italian. In the U.S. if someone says, “Let’s go out for dinner!” it is inevitably followed up by, “Great! What are you in the mood for? Thai, Indian, Chinese, Mexican, Italian?” There is no such discussion in Mexico since the food, while delicious, fresh and cheap, seems pretty mono-taste. Lime, chile, tortillas, manchego cheese, zucchini, carrots. And meat, meat, meat. I love the food here (minus the meat). I have never eaten so well in my life. But on a recent, quick trip to visit my folks, I moaned with delight during every meal when we traversed the world in my three days there- Thailand, Southern India, Lebanon, Greece and Italy. While there I went to a Philippino market, a Thai one, an Indian one and American one. I filled my suitcase with green curry, fish sauce, yellow curry, boxed Pad Thai, Chinese green tea, pesto, tahini and expensive olive oil. Add to that, the weekend I was back there were advertisements for a Philopino Fesitval, an International Catholic festival, and an Italian festival all within a 15 mile area.

Being normal. And diversity is normal in the parts of the U.S. where I have lived. No one stares at me. It was almost strange returning and not having any eyes follow me, no babies stare at me with amazement, no men thinking I’m model material. But furthermore, my personality is (somewhat) normal. I’m allowed to be exaggerated, out-going, super-smiley, extroverted and mildly flirtatious. I can laugh loudly, be on time (if not 5 minutes early), over-plan an activity, ask numerous questions and expect an answer, get prettied up, smile at strangers, act boldly. Never have I realized how much of who I am is directly connected to the context in which I grew up. It doesn’t mean it is right, but it is what I know, what I often prefer and what I miss.

Quality of life. And finally, I have the privilege in the US to come from a solidly middle-class, white family. But race and class aside (if that can ever really be done), I grew up among all races and ethnicities. Both my parents came from blue collar families. Thanks largely to strong unions they were able to build upon that, but also class isn’t as permanent in the US- unfortunately, that is changing as middle-class America weakens in power. However, I miss being in a place where the sidewalks are smooth, the air is relatively clean, I can drink out of my tap and I don’t have to soak my vegetables in an anti-bacterial rinse before I eat them. Similarly, I could just get into the shower- no need to heat up the water 15 minutes before. I didn’t have to strike a match to light the stove. And the buses actually wait until I’m nearly at my seat before they take off. I hardly heard a horn honk the entire visit and crossing the street was not a life-or-death Olympic sport. I went to a state-of-the-art gym to work out, I received a quality haircut in which they patiently listened to all the things I wanted (and followed my wishes!), I bought good quality clothes at about half the price I pay for half-polyester Mexican offerings. All of those things may seem superficial, but it also extends to greater things. I am pretty confident I’ll be able to get a decent paying job upon my return with simply my Bachelor’s of Arts- in Geography no less. I know that if I find out that I’m receiving lesser pay than my male coworkers, I have legal action that I can take with a great possibility that it will be a fruitful fight. If I decide that I would like to go back to school for my masters, or even to change careers, I have that flexibility. Quality of life is a fluid and relative understanding of how one lives, and I recognize fully that many of these luxuries are held by me at the expense of others. But the truth is I miss it.

Patriot? I’m not one. I find the word scary. When I think patriot, I think of Rush Limbaugh, Mao Zedong and Ann Coulter. The word has been bastardized, but even on the pure definition I can’t necessarily accept the title. I will probably not ever hang a flag from my front porch, much less decorate my house in the star-spangled banner. I will always try to critically analyze my nation’s actions at home and abroad. I think that we as Americans aren’t analytical enough about our news, media, education system, domestic policy and role in the world. Recently, a friend forwarded a video to me of Americans being asked simple questions such as the monetary currency of England, name a country that begins with “U”, who is the speaker of the house, and other such easy trivia. I watched in horror as they answered “dollars,” “Yugoslavia,” and “Dick Cheney.”

Acceptance. I’ve never been good at acceptance. I struggle with it constantly- when do I accept something as is, when do I just abandon it and when do I work to change it? The same thing goes for the U.S. I am nervous to return to that America. How do I return to an America where half the people are blaming Mexicans for low wages (is it not Congress that controls the minimum wage? And is it not Corporate America that influences Congress to keep it unlivably low?) and believe that a wall will do the trick to “keeping them out.” I don’t know how I’ll handle it when people state their ill-conceived perceptions about Mexico and Mexicans- a country and people that I deeply love. Don’t get me wrong. I’m one of Mexico’s biggest critics. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think some arrogant thought about how Mexico needs to get its act together. But the same exact thing goes for America in my mind. Mexico frustrates me, it wears on me. It stresses me out and angers me often. But just like family, friends, America, Christianity, my relationship, and even myself, I have to take the good with the bad. I love Mexico. I really do. It has molded me into a better person, it has opened my eyes about relativism and foreign policy. It has made me see myself, and my country in completely different terms. But when I come home at the end of the day, and when I talk to my family. When I make my friends laugh and when I discuss politics with them. When I express my values and my dreams, when I reflect on my past and when I dream about my future, I know I am fully American. The good and the bad.