America is a shitshow. There. I said it. And I get to say it, because I’ll never escape my American roots.
I spent the first 26 years of my life in New England, between Connecticut and Maine. But for the last 16 years, I’ve lived first in Canada, and then Australia, which I consider my “forever country” even if it breaks my yankee heart.
People act surprised when they find out I’m American by birth. “You don’t sound American,” they say, eyes wide, heads shaking, as though they just found out the stick they picked up is a snake. “I’m a recovering American,” I say. “You know, like if you’re an alcoholic you’re always an alcoholic?” (even if you’re dry as my lips for years, quoth the immortal Ani DiFranco). “I’ll always be an American but I consider myself to be in recovery.”
Cue a polite chuckle here.
I have a superpower that allows me to unconsciously pick up and put down accents like a native speaker wherever I go. I don’t do it on purpose. It’s just one of the weird ways my brain does things. So everyone just assumes I’m a fair-dinkum, true-blue Aussie.
And to be honest, I don’t go out of my way to dispel that illusion.
You see, there’s a general perception outside the US that Americans are at best unstable and slightly dangerous. Which is better than the less generous idea that Americans are recklessly armed, loud mouthed idiots who celebrate the losers of the war against slavery while attending warehouse churches with rockstar preachers for their weekly dose of thoughts and prayers.
I wish I could say this is a relatively recent development but I’d be lying. The ignominy of the Trump presidency and the shockwaves of conservative ideology that fueled the fires of nationalism around the globe was only the most recent demonstration of how the mighty nation, once a beacon of aspirational ideals, has been laid low.
Australians are a down-to-earth bunch. They (we? Do I dare?) focus less on the dime-a-dozen social media dogwhistles and more on the practical aspects of living in a country where sensible gun control and public healthcare are taken for granted as obvious measures taken by a (generally) reasonable government to protect the well-being of their citizens.
Maybe it’s because we just accept that politicians are all cunts, and only deserve our support as long as they stay away from the extreme ends of the spectrum. They’re easily disposable, and they’re doing a job for us, as opposed to the American paradigm of celebrity hero worship that presidents seem to cultivate.
I’m not a political scientist. And I’m not looking to start a shitfight. I’m just stating the general opinion of American politics from the perspective of an outsider. The fact that I was, and will always be, a Connecticut girl just gives the ache of being displaced a salty sprinkling of irony.
I love the smell of the forest litter, that mix of pine needles and the crispness of oak leaves, the sparkle of mica in the glacial till and the blood droplet garnets that speak of heat and pressure and iron hundreds of millions of years in the making, the taste of fresh water in the air and how my skin drinks it in. There is deep comfort in knowing the names of all the trees by their bark and the birds by their calls, when to expect the first blossoms of forsythia in the spring and fireflies in the summer, and which bumps in the road will send you airborne if you take them just a little too fast. Even though my bones know that they belong to that hill, to that river, that the seasons sing in my blood with all their ever changing colours, I can’t go back. Not to stay. And it breaks me.
Growing up in semi-rural “patheticut” as we used to call it, I couldn’t wait to get away. (Hey at least I’m not a masshole.) Now I realize how much I took for granted.
Another one of my awkward jokes is that if I lived any further away from my hometown, I’d start going back again. My nerd-self loves the word for this. Antipode. Perth is nearly the antipode to Hartford. It’s a full 12 hour time difference, our seasons are backward, and even Orion dangles upside down in the winter sky. A walk through the bush (the woods) smells like eucalyptus, and reptiles skitter beneath the trees instead of chattering chipmunks. The flat red land traces its way beside a ridiculously vibrant turquoise sea, the tang of salt and baked dust in every breath. It’s a raw beauty. And I love it. But it isn’t mine.
It will be my children’s though. They will grow up celebrating Christmas with beach barbecues and calling garbage rubbish. The song of the wattlebird and the warbling croon of magpies will be their memories of birdsong. And I’ll be grateful as fuck for how child-friendly Australian life is. Public play spaces abound, with shaded seating, proper toilet facilities, and cafes so a cup of coffee and a sausage roll are never too far away.
In America, kid-friendly dining is limited to fast food or tacky chain restaurants, and playgrounds are relegated to schoolyards, but hey, you can get Oreos in fifteen flavors. So there’s that.
I can’t imagine embarking on the journey of motherhood without the support of a public health system, complete with mental health support. And as I age, it only baffles me more how anyone in America can navigate the convoluted insurance industry and retirement planning with any sort of hope unless they belong to an extremely narrow demographic of those born into wealth.
I can’t imagine sending my kids to school in a country where they might get shot in their classroom on any given day. And yes, perhaps that’s alarmist. I know. But it’s a statistical possibility that I’d rather not have to contemplate.
I feel terrified for the women who are losing bodily autonomy. I couldn’t ever sacrifice my daughter’s legal right to make her own reproductive decisions. I’m horrified for the queer community and the continued battles they face under a government that normalized (and glorifies) bigotry. The institutional marginalization of people of colour, the erasure of native Americans, and the denial of science and history by the educational system are all undeniable indications that this is not a place where people can count on their rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
But despite the politics, the fear, and all the trappings of a society where the critical mass of stupid has been reached and all that’s left is to hope we don’t all get sucked down the drain with what’s left of the American dream (by design only available to the persons who most resemble that sacrosanct coven of white male slave owners who wrote America’s founding document) I miss the land of my birth.
I miss my people. (We’re not all fanatical Christian right-wing xenophobes). And hey, they’ve legalized cannabis in most states now, so maybe there’s hope after all.