Curtain Call

I think this is it, everyone! The last posts are up. I still have papers to write for class, but the blog is complete.
There is so much more to talk about, and I have so many stories, but if I do decide to keep writing about them, it will be with a different site. Belmont was kind enough to let us use personal blogs for the trip, but I don't want to put them or myself in an uncomfortable position by continuing to use this blog personally.

So if you want to keep in touch, let me know, and I'll get you my contact information, if you don't already have it.

Quick thank yous:

To my family for supporting me, both emotionally and financially through this trip, and through life. I don't know where I would be without you, let alone how to thank you, but I'm so lucky I have you.

To my friends and roommates for putting up with months of me jabbering about this. I promise to return your phone calls soon!

To Belmont Administration, particularly Marcia McDonald, for believing this was worth it.

To the Marketing and Tech support, particularly Paul Chenoweth, Pamela Johnson, and their teams for all of their work in keeping us media-ready.

To Maria Allen, for being the most organized and level headed person I've ever met, even when the details were making all of us dizzy. And for the gift bag. :)

To Matt Burchett, for having that conversation with Ken two years ago and showing up in his office with tour books a week later. (And for the Dr Pepper!)

To Bonnie, for being my home base professor and cheerleader.

To Andi, for trading your cats and your sabbatical for ducks and your Minnie Driver impression. It wouldn't have been the same without you.

To Reuben, for picking us over Lil' Wayne. And for your advice on marriage.

To Cory, Rashina, Chris, Elisabeth, Emma, Pierce, Emily, Shirah, and Jenni for being my makeshift family, for making me think, but especially making me laugh.

To Ken, for being wise enough to run with idea and completely insane for letting me tag along.

And to everyone we met along the way. The Silversmiths, the Bhulas, Aunt Lounell, Thomas, Steve (get well soon!), Sherry, Mike, every server who split up 12 checks for us, every person with we met on the street with the courage to answer our questions, every car Emma and I stopped in D.C. while Reuben tried to back into the parking lot, and every person we met who went out of their way to help us, to talk to us, and to make this trip unforgettable. If I didn't mention you by name above, this is for you. You are loved.

And so it is

If you’ve been following the other blogs, you know that our last day did not go as planned. What was going to be a final wrap up in Montgomery before heading home ended abruptly on the side of the road outside of Tallahassee. Big Mama had done pretty well through the whole trip, but as we left St. Augustine, a bearing came loose in her fan and our journey with her and Reuben came to an end. Around 1pm a charter bus from Atlanta met us on the highway, and we loaded all of our luggage onto the new bus, waving at Reuben as we drove away from what had become our home for 39 ½ days.

As the news sunk in that we wouldn’t be going to Montgomery at all, I felt remorse, for Emma, the day’s ambassador, and for all of us missing out on the experience. But as I settled into my seat on the new bus and breathed a heavy sigh, I realized it wasn’t the only one I had missed.

As we left Washington D.C. and moved south to Williamsburg, Charleston, and St. Augustine, I have to be honest, the trip became more about trying to find a balance, and less about the experience. I was starting to get sick, and was dealing with stress from home. The drain of the heat, emotional overload, and complete exhaustion were finally starting to take effect. Not to mention the realization that in a few days, this would all be over, and I would have to begin to emotionally and mentally unpack everything I’d kept mostly inside.

I regret that I wasn’t present in the Southeast the way I had been in the early days of the trip. I can give you a list of excuses, and I doubt many would blame me for being exhausted by the last leg, but still, I failed to keep the promise I made myself in South Dakota, to appreciate every experience and do my best to remember each day. I’d failed to keep the promise I had made myself on the street in D.C. after passing the wealthy man with issues of both décor and decorum. I was too tired.

So the final push into Nashville was bittersweet. Glad as I was to be in a town I knew, with people I had missed, I wasn’t ready to be done. I wanted to turn around and go back. To pick up Reuben in Tallahassee and make a loop back the way we came, paying attention to all the spots I’d missed and checking to see if the others had changed at all. I wanted to sleep, and shower, and then start moving again. An apologetic pilgrimage to all the cities I didn’t give my level best.

But that didn’t happen. I spent a couple days in Nashville saying goodbye to the friends I’d made and spending some time with friends I’ve known for years, now. I had one last class, and then I packed up my car to drive the 500 miles back to my parents home, where a bed, and a shower, and family waited.

As I pulled out onto Wedgwood, a road I’d driven down countless times in my years at Belmont, I noticed an old man pushing a woman in a wheelchair, outside of a large, brown complex. I glanced at the sign outside the building and realized it was a nursing home. A home I’d never even noticed before that day. If it wasn’t for the couple outside I might not have noticed it then.

I shook my head at my own blindness and realized that I might make that pilgrimage after all. The way I see cities, even Nashville, a town I’ve lived in for two years now, has changed, because now I’m actually looking. I’m honestly asking people how they’re doing, and getting to know their stories. I’m letting my blinders drop and seeing more than just the road in front of my car.

I might not have the answer to “what it means to be an American” just yet. I doubt I’ll have a concrete answer. But as Ken said on the last day of class, it’s important that we’re asking. So in the end, I don’t know if I “rediscovered America”. But I think I learned how to. And I’m not done looking.

Color Coordination

Walking towards the National Mall in D.C., I found myself eavesdropping on a conversation taking place next to me. A man and his assistant were walking towards Folders Shakespearean library, and with smug posturing he was sharing the trials of leasing a home, now that he had moved back to the States.

“Well, the lease is manageable…$250,000 per year…but we’re having such trouble with the decor. All of my art and furniture is Renaissance era, which just won’t work in such a rustic log cabin, like ours…and the real tragedy is I have $2 million in books just sitting in storage.”

The assistant nodded solemnly, sympathizing with his plight. I bit my tongue and kept walking, reminding myself that I was an ambassador of Belmont, and now was not the time to wage a class war. Still, I was greatly tempted to kick him in the shin until he volunteered to loan his millions in books to any one of the local libraries while he remodeled his home, purchase a new home that matched his decor, or at the very least, quit complaining about it.

I mean, here I am, about to graduate into a terrible economy with little to no job prospects of value, a sizable amount of student debt, and this guy is complaining that his books don’t match his chalet? Didn’t he realize how fortunate he is? Hire me! I’ll read your books so they don’t go to waste! I’m scrambling for a job, and you’re finding it difficult to live without color coordinated decadence?

Never have I been more inspired to engage in civil disobedience, just to call attention to a glaring class divide.
And there I was, a middle class white woman, on a trip around the country on a luxury tour bus, being taught at a graduate level by brilliant professors, complaining that he didn’t realize how lucky he was.

I Remember it Well

I remember we were in the van in Minneapolis when we found out that Michael Jackson had died. The radio chirped with rumors that he was still alive…no, dead…no, he’s alive…and now, not alive. We all received text messages from friends, voice-mails listing all of the bulleted information they had received, and phone calls from family members urging us to get to a television soon.

I’ll admit, my mind was elsewhere when we heard the news. And when I did zone back in to the news, I was fairly apathetic. It sounds terrible, but I was never a fan of his music, even as a child star, I didn’t respect many of the decisions he had made in this life, and I wasn’t looking forward to the next three weeks of “continuing coverage regarding Michael Jackson’s sudden death”. I may be going to the special hell for being so…unsympathetic, but at least I’m honest.

It did get me thinking, despite my lack of sadness over Jackson’s death. How we commemorate history, and figures long past. From Graceland and back to Nashville, where Steve McNair’s death still hit hard for so many people, celebrities were hard to ignore. They were featured on t-shirts, shot glasses, and cardboard cutouts. I can honestly think of only three cities where I saw no evidence of Elvis (I thank you for that, Seattle, San Francisco, and El Paso). Not a day went by without some reference to canceled sitcoms and old Disney films.

It was impossible to escape celebrity, especially after the death of Jackson. Every aspect of his life was exposed on twenty-foot screens with looped archival footage, broadcast on the sides of buildings in Chicago, scrolling at the bottom of every newscast, featured front and center in every publication. The dark side of celebrity is that there is no end to the publicity. Every corner of life is thrown up in the air for anyone to grab.

Historical figures are treated slightly differently. If they were minor characters in American history, they get a reenactment. A history buff adopts their costume and portrays their culture at public events, such as the reading of the Declaration of Independence in Philadelphia. As a man read the Declaration aloud, men and women dressed in timely garb and dispersed themselves throughout the crowd of onlookers, hurling cries either for or against the document. Some cried “Treason! Long Live the King!” Still others threw their hats and shouted “Huzzah!” as the crier’s voice raised to announce, “We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America…solemnly publish and declare, That these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States”.

If they are major characters, we get a puzzling number of plaques announcing that a major person lived there, or visited it, or passed by on their way elsewhere, or mentioned it once in a speech. Boston and Philadelphia were both riddled with historical markers for founding fathers, giving you a haphazard quilt of their lives…and offering you a t-shirt to accompany and commemorate your visit.

If they were important enough figures, we built huge neoclassical temples to commemorate their greatness. Abraham Lincoln draped in Grecian robes…Washington’s obelisk…Jefferson’s Corinthian pillars. They are linked in imagery and architecture to the founders of civilization and made to look like gods. After seeing the Lincoln Memorial, it’s odd to consider the tiny plaque in my hometown’s square commemorating his great debate with Stephen Douglas. A man carved to emulate the temples of Zeus couldn’t have fit into my town square…

But if they were of no importance…just immigrants, slaves, and poor workers who actually built this country…we barely remember them at all. At Ellis Island you can have your face photo-shopped into historical shots of immigrants who passed through the island, superimposing your own face over an unimportant Polish farmer, an Italian seamstress, or a group of young Irish girls.

Soldiers who died serving their government are marked only by their names. Their lives, their families, their faces don’t matter, unless they were generals, or well known for later careers. The great tragedy now is that so many soldiers have died, there’s no room for their individual stories and faces. There’s barely room for their names.

In Boston and Philadelphia you can see the grave markers of slaves, known only by their first names. They’re right next to the massive, ornate markers of their famous owners, buried with the family, like a pet.

In Charleston they’re not even marked by their names, but by a square divot in the ground and a few personal items laid as markers.

They say history is written by the winners, and judging by the way we treat our dead, we have a very skewed definition of success. When Michael Jackson gets a $4.8 million funeral and a century’s worth of fame, but the soldiers who died in Afghanistan on the same day get no mention at all, we’ve taken a wrong step somewhere along the way.

So I wonder about our memorials. I wonder who, and what, and how we will remember the great minds of my own generation. I wonder what our achievements and losses will say about us when tourists come to buy our t-shirts. When every memorial built in the last ten years (that I can think of, at least) has been built to mark a great tragedy, is it because we are getting better at honoring our dead? Or is it because we have no great successes to commemorate next to them?

I wonder if I will be a part of something worth commemorating, and if not, who will be remembered. I wonder where they are right now, and how they feel about Michael Jackson.

In New York, Freedom Looks Like too Many Choices...

In New York you can forget, forget how to sit still
Tell yourself you will stay in
But it's down to Alphaville…
-“New York” by U2


With every stop of the subway I could hear the words of Bono start to make sense. One passenger described her relationship with NYC as “love/hate” and I can completely understand. When I first talked to my roommate about the trip last fall, I remember her frowning and saying, “It seems like it’s a mile wide and an inch deep.” And it was. This trip wasn’t designed to give us a comprehensive view of every city, and some sites had to be skipped in favor of the class. But nowhere was that more obvious than in New York.


So often we had to choose between ten different options. Forty minutes in the Metropolitan Museum of Art is just a sick joke, but do I miss out on the opportunity to see a Broadway show? Or a hip-hop concert in the Bronx? How is it possible that I managed to miss the MoMA? The Museum of Natural History? The Naked Cowboy?


The constant rush to be somewhere else, the sense of guilt that we weren’t taking full advantage of this city persisted throughout the three days we spent there. The thirty-minute drive from our Jersey parking lot to the Port Authority left me feeling antsy, as though I’d missed another great event while I waited for my bus to emerge from the Lincoln Tunnel. The pressure to choose between too much usually resulted in too much time on the subway and not enough time enjoying the city. A classic rookie mistake, I’d say.


By the time the way was over, I had seen hundreds of moments and signs and events and places that I wanted to write about. But I was so exhausted by that point that I’d fall asleep in my bunk, my laptop balancing on my stomach, and empty Word document open, waiting to be filled (really, ask anyone on the bus).


And yet…even as my body won the battle over creative expression, I would feel guilty that I wasn’t out exploring, getting to know the city. Even if that was just sitting in those tacky lawn chairs in Times Square and watching people pass by. As vital as sleep was at that point, I mentally kicked myself for missing out.


But that’s true for most of the trip, I guess. I just felt it more acutely in New York City, for some reason. Maybe because it is the city people think of when they think of America. There’s no other city quite like it. Chicago feels like a series of neighborhoods, so vastly different from each other that you can forget you’re in a metropolitan area. New York never lets you forget where you are.

Maybe it’s because New York is such a center for so many American fields. Finance, film, theatre, higher education, politics, media, religion, sports…New York is a major player in almost every field. It crams so much American culture into such a tiny area that it feels like a twisted, Tim Burton version of Disneyland’s Main Street U.S.A., a glaring representation of what is both good and terrible about America.


No matter the reason, all of the feelings of “missing out” along the trip came to a head in New York. It really felt like a mile wide and an inch deep, when there were so many areas to delve into. I can only imagine what it must be like for a new immigrant to the country, leaving Ellis Island and trying to navigate new-found freedom in a place with so many choices.


Still, overwhelming as it was, with that sense of missing out is the desire to keep looking. Like New York, I want to go back to almost every city we’ve visited. I want to look at new cities that weren’t on the trip with a similar eye. I can no longer be content with sitting still.

Rediscovering the Elephant

Author Note: I am sorry about the lack of updates! The last couple weeks of the trip became hectic and exhausting, so the blogs took a backseat to the experience. I wrote bits and pieces of these blogs on the trip, but it took getting home to finally finishing them. I hope you enjoy!
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Day one in Boston, we took advantage of the Institute of Contemporary Art’s “Free Admission Thursday”, which turned out to be a great experience for all of us, whether we are art lovers or not. The main gallery featured the work of Shepard Fairey, a contemporary artist best known for his “HOPE” portrait of Barak Obama during the presidential campaign, but a smaller installation, focused on short films, really caught my eye.



A film by Javier Tellez called “Letter on the Blind, for the Use of Those Who See” featured six individuals with severe visual impairment, each taking turns touching a live elephant for the first time. A whistle would blow, and one by one they would approach the creature, running their hands over its skin, gauging its size, getting to know its personality through touch.

The cinematography was quiet, poignant in stark black and white with close ups of the elephant’s rough skin undulating with each breath, but the true beauty was in their commentary. Each person approached the elephant and came away with a different impression. One was amazed, whispering over and over “you are beautiful…” as he circled the creature. One was more timid, describing the elephants rippling ears as “like curtains to a mansion” but admitting he was afraid of it, afraid it might trample him. One man was nearly silent as he traced his fingers around its belly, but said afterward, “I wouldn’t do it again.” A woman giggled with nervous glee as she curled her hands down his trunk. “It’s like an ocean in here….you can feel the power and the strength, but you can also feel the tenderness.”

It struck me as I watched the film that this is what we are doing on this trip. Each of us approaches this country without any idea of what we’ll find. We have some of our own experiences, and we each see through our own lenses, but ultimately we’ll see different parts of the same cities.

This seemed obvious as we spent our time in Boston for the Fourth of July. Such a quintessential American holiday in such a cornerstone of American history was sure to bring out some mixed opinions from within the group.

We’ll each come away with different impressions of what we liked and disliked. Some of us might want to keep searching. Others might want to leave. But hopefully between the 12 of us we’ll find something that looks like an elephant.

Cleveland Rock.

What is the worst thing to get on the day the group tours the House of Blues, visits the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and goes to a Roots concert?

A migraine.

Sorry, Cleveland, I think I'm going to have to pass on this one.

I will post the video we've been watching since April to get us amped up for Cleveland. Even the locals think it's funny, and it was stuck in my head all day.

The Hastily Made Cleveland Tourism Video (Second Attempt)

Built Ford Tough.

I was going to write about hopelessness in Detroit.

After 23 days of unified hope throughout the U.S. we hit a city that looks like this. Houses in total decay, factory after factory left empty, entire neighborhoods silent. I had images of Haz-Mat suits walking down the main streets after deadly virus had run its course, scenes from zombie films and that old "Twilight Zone" episode where the soldier walks into a completely desolate town and everywhere he goes it looks like someone just left. Post-industrial wasteland is the perfect setting for a film.

It was hard to see, really. Detroit, birthplace of modern America, icon of car culture and industrialization...so quiet. Wiped out by corporate greed and economic recession. A city supported by a single industry can't stand when the industry collapses. The economy in the area crumbled to the point that people were forced to just walk away from their homes because it would cost them more to try and sell it.

The result is a city that isn't likely to come back. Gentrification isn't going to take place the way it has in Chicago, New York, and Nashville. A small group of artists and investors aren't going to fix up on neighborhood to its full bourgeoisie potential. There's not a strong enough economy to support it. Unless the American car industry has a huge resurgence, or multiple industries invest in the people of Detroit, the current trend of urban decay will probably continue. And it's hard to find hope in that.

That feeling came to a head for me when we visited The Heidelberg Project, a community arts project using objects found within the abandoned homes in the area. Tyree Guyton started the project with his grandfather and former wife in the 1980's and the project has grown to encompass a city block with found art sculptures, social commentary pieces, and powerful testaments to the racial and economic issues in Detroit's neighborhoods. As beautiful as it was to see a sign of life, the sign felt so small after driving through the city, and so sad after seeing entire houses covered with the stuffed animals children were forced to leave behind when their families moved to new jobs in other cities.

So I was going to write about the great irony of Detroit, iconic and essential to the modern American spirit, being the only place along our path thus far that has been without hope. But it isn't true. We saw hope at the Henry Ford Museum in Deerborn, MI (HUGE recommendation by the way. Easily one of the best museums I've ever been to.) A museum all of us had written off as just a car place, a testament to American capitalism turned out to be a refreshingly accurate look at American history and daily life. All because of people like Greg, our tour guide for the day and PR rep for the museum, who grew up in Detroit, and came back to work when he graduated from college. He has such a passion for his museum and his hometown and he doesn't want to leave.

We saw it in Hamtramck, where the kindness of friends and family still holds strong, as we were treated to an enormous Polish/Ukranian meal made with care by a slew of workers. The traditions, the history, and the passion behind the food they gave us was much appreciated and well received, if the food coma we all found ourselves in afterward is any indication.

We saw it in Rossford, where Ken showed us his old neighborhood where everyone still walks together down to the park to watch baseball games and the kids all stop and wave when you drive past. And we saw it in Toledo, where the arts are loved and respected. They're striving to replace the failing industrial economy with a creative economy, and it's working wonders. All thanks to people like Mark Folk, who work with local artists and at risk kids to build the programs necessary to sustain a creative economy.

It's beautiful and powerful to see that happening, and I have to admit, it's hopeful. In an area struggling to make it into a new era, they are finding their way. And as Emma told me, there is something uniquely American about hope and ingenuity combined. Even to be able to pack up and move elsewhere and succeed in a new town or new career is an opportunity some never get.

So I can't write about the hopelessness of Detroit. It's going to a hard time, yes. It may never be the booming factory town it was, yes. But it will find its way. It just needs time.

And on the 22nd Day,

Indianapolis was a quiet day for us as a group. The time changes and late nights in Chicago brought on some heavy exhaustion, so we opted for a lax day in Indianapolis. Most of the group slept in a little later than usual, and had plenty of time to get ready before our tour of the Indianapolis Motor Speedway.

After the tour we grabbed a bite to eat and headed to Butler University for showers, then out to the Broad Ripple area to do some laundry and have dinner before heading back to the bus.

I wish we could've had more time in Indy, more of a picture of the city culture, but in a way, we really did. Indianapolis is a larger city in the scope of Midwestern America, but it's still a city in the Midwest on a Sunday. There's a huge tradition to Sundays, especially in the Midwest. The morning church service, the big family dinner, the family nap in front of the chosen sports event, the evening chores and miscellaneous errands needed to be done to prepare for the week. It's how I spent my Midwestern childhood, and how most people I know spent theirs.

That's not to say that people in California don't watch football, and goodness knows that people in the South go to church, but there's a privacy to Midwestern Sundays. You don't often see people out and about in the afternoon, because they're all at home, with their families. The institution of family plays a huge role in American culture, but it's especially true when combined with other institutions like media, the economy and religion.

Of course, all of those institutions combined could be called The Indy 500. This became apparent when we toured the racetrack and discovered just how much of a "everyman" sport Nascar racing is. Even as we approached the Motorway, we didn't pass bars and tourist traps and pirates dressed as prostitutes like we did in Las Vegas. Instead we found family homes and hardware stores. When we toured the track, our guide pointed out the RV parks where drivers and spectators alike keep their mobile homes, so they can spend time with their families. He showed us the main back lot where drivers struggle to get through the crowds of spectators and to the racetrack because there is no physical barrier keeping the crowds back from their path.

He told us about his own stories, growing up at the track, and the times he's spent with his wife at different races. He even talked about the families who have switched brands of coffee because their favorite driver is sponsored by that brand. There's a huge sense of family to the whole sport. Part of that is constructed as a marketing strategy, but part of that is just because the race (for reasons unknown to me) appeals to a wide range of people, and families in particular. Maybe it appeals more to men, and the "family appeal" speaks more to the patriarchal family structure that is much more traditionally practiced in the Midwest.

But there is something sweet about the culture to Indianapolis. We took part by taking a "Chill Day" by catching up on chores, sleep, and our group relationship. By week three, we've become a family of our own. We even took in some Nascar.

Nighthawks

Before we left on the trip, Bonnie asked us to be sure and visit Marc Chagall's American Windows when we visited the Art Institute of Chicago. Chagall's windows, commissioned to celebrate the United States bicentennial, portray his sense of gratitude for the tolerance and liberty he found in America during World War II. It's a beautiful piece of blue stained glass, inlaid with greens and yellow, and would've been a great example of American identity portrayed in art...but it wasn't on display.

The recent remodel and new addition to the Art Institute has sent some of the more delicate pieces into storage until the dust has settled and it's safe to come out. The new Millennium Entrance is looking shiny, so hopefully it will be up soon for everyone to enjoy.

I've been to the Institute a few times in my life, and it's like coming home for me. The collection feels so familiar anymore, I can walk the halls and visit my favorite pieces just like I would old relatives. One such piece is Hopper's Nighthawks



To me...this may not be American culture portrayed, but it is definitely Chicago. Although Hopper swore up and down that he never meant for Nighthawks to have any kind of symbolism, he did admit that consciously or unconsciously, he was portraying the loneliness of the city. Three lone figures idling around coffee mugs and cigarettes, the city bustle slowing to heavy, tired sighs in the fluorescent lights of the diner, the short-order cook behind the counter working to scrape together the last few dollars of the night. It's quiet, it's still, and it's the exact opposite of what most people see in Chicago, or any city for that matter.

Chicago is constantly moving, constantly breathing with the push and pull of people scurrying about. You can feel it in the heat of the sidewalks and in the constant white noise of people and cars and food stands and music playing on every corner. It has a pulse to it, a vibe that is alive and beautiful. You really need to stand still at a bus stop and watch the city blur past to fully understand that in all of that movement it's easy to leave some things behind. Like connection.

My favorite part of Nighthawks is the man and woman sitting at the counter, their hands so close they are almost touching. I used to stare at those hands and wonder if they were at the diner together, if they were sharing a cigarette, if they were holding hands, or if their fingers reached for each other simply because they needed to feel someone's hand in theirs.

I love Chicago, don't get me wrong. My time in the city has almost always been amazing. But sometimes it feels like I'm completely alone, even in that sea of movement. It's not until the night come and the city quiets down and people tuck themselves into bed when you can really see the difference.

I thought about Nighthawks as a group of us walked along the deserted tracks of the Metra towards Big Mama. It was late and the city was finally coming to a rest. Even in the station, amongst all the concrete and stairs, it felt like there wasn't another human being around for miles. It wasn't until the noise fell away that we could really tell just how heavy silence can be.

I think Hopper understood that...the loneliness that covers you. Like a warm blanket. But I also think we've seen that kind of need for connection everywhere we've gone. So many people are connecting with our group as we travel on, even when their lives are busy enough. So often we'll approach strangers and ask them questions about their lives and their beliefs, and so often they are willing to sit down and explain their views. It makes me wonder if we're all kind of like the couple at the counter, almost touching hands. Maybe they're helping us out because we seem like nice people and they're curious about the trip. Or maybe they are just looking for the connection they've been missing, even in sea of faces. I know I am.

Minnesot-ahhh

The tourist versus the local. It's been a major theme of this trip for us as we've planned our destinations and driven through the larger half of our route. Every place we've gone to has been either been dubbed cliche tourist attractions with gift shops and scary tour guides, or slices of local culture.

Everywhere we've gone (tourist trap or local eatery) we've tried to identify what it is that makes a place one or the other. Typically the answer comes down to the number of local visitors to the attraction, as well as the variety of shot glasses available in the gift shops. And there are always gift shops.

Because the tourist destinations tend to leave a sour taste in our collective mouth, I couldn't help be but a little bit nervous about our approach to Minneapolis/St. Paul, which houses the world-famous Mall of America. After all, it's a mall which boasts 35-40 million visitors every year. That is more than the number of visitors to Graceland, Disneyland, and the Grand Canyon, combined. That is more than the entire population of Canada. And it's all for shopping. I'd say it's the Mecca of Consumerism, but Mecca only gets 2 million visitors every year, so that doesn't quite cover it.

And yet...it didn't really feel like a tourist destination. Keeping in mind that we were in a mall during an economic crisis on a beautiful Thursday, it still just felt like a big mall. There wasn't anything particularly "touristy" about the place, aside from the (wait for it...) gift shops that were strategically placed near entrances, selling Mall of America t-shirts and souvenir lanyards.

In fact, as I walked around the Mall, if felt exactly like the mall I grew up going to with friends. Like the mall I spent my summers in, working part time jobs. Like the mall in Nashville that I worked at during the school year. This was just four floors of small town malls, pushed together and filled in with specialty shops and Caribou Coffeehouses.

Several of us shared later that our conversations with shoppers revealed a largely local crowd. I was pleasantly surprised to hear most of the group really enjoyed their time at the mall, and wouldn't have minded spending more time there. I was surprised to find that I could've stayed a while longer myself.

After our tour of the mall, we headed into the city to the riverfront and to Mill City Ruins Park. Minneapolis has worked hard to preserve and revitalize the riverfront, where the city once prospered around the grain milling factories. Until the Washburn A. Mill exploded in 1878 after a spark ignited some flour dust inside the mill, the factories around St. Anthony Falls in the Mississippi River. In the past ten years, the city has revamped the riverfront area, building a museum inside the old Washburn Mill, dedicated to educating young Minnesotans about the milling history, a riverfront green-space along the ruins of the park, and a shiny new theater.

We explored the area for an hour, and walked along the riverfront, admiring the mixture of Minneapolis architecture. From our perch on the Endless Bridge at the Guthrie Theatre, we could see four different bridges, each built in a completely different style. It made for a strange hybrid, but it worked. Here was a city that seemed more interested in diversity and history within its own borders than in impressing visitors with its cohesive style and tourist friendly attractions. I have to say, after three days of national parks, it was pretty refreshing.

For dinner, went to Midtown Global Market, built in part of an old Sears building. Again, I was nervous, as “Global Markets” have typically translated to expensive organic foods and upper class yuppies gathering around Ethiopian smoothies and congratulating themselves on their bohemian bourgeoisie lifestyles. But once again, we were greeted with local food vendors offering authentic meals and cultural artifacts from all over the world, and nary a yuppie. In fact, as we purchased our meals and sat around tables in the center court, it became apparent that we were the outsiders…tourists stepping into a local joint, feeling just slightly out of place.

After dinner we drove Harriet Lake and had class near the bandstand, watching the sunset over the city. We watched families play together in the park, couples snuggle together on a hill and read books next to one another, puppies tangle up in their leashes as they chased smells and fireflies, and children practice their dance moves on the bandstand while their parents looked on from the benches.

We all seemed to be in a good mood by the end of the day, and more than a few people said they could definitely live in Minneapolis as they watched the sky fade from blue to pink to a dusty indigo. I took a deep breath and realized all of my stress had been for nothing. I had been so afraid that Minneapolis would be another tourist trap, another nail in the coffin of the Midwestern reputation. But yet again, the cities that we have either little or low expectations for come through in the end. Our band of tourists had found the local and fallen in love. All in all, a pretty good day.

Bullet Points and Blog Posts

On our way out to Mount Rushmore, I found myself reflecting on the moment at hand. Nearly halfway through the trip, I had never really stopped to think about what exactly I was doing.

Here I was in a car with five classmates and a professor, being driven toward a national monument. We were on day 19 of a 40 day trip that no other school has taken, involving great food, great talks, great people, great culture, and no sleep. And listening to The Flaming Lips and trying to picture which presidential carving would sing which part of each song, imagining their jaws moving like ventriloquist dummies and bickering over whether Lincoln or Roosevelt would take the tenor part.

Mine is not a normal educational experience.

I thought about the last few weeks and realized with a saddening heart that already the memories are fading. Already I struggle to catch every moment and experience like I could at the beginning of the trip. Already it is harder to instantly bring to mind the places we saw in the early days of this trip. Some of that may be the short term effects of sleep deprivation, but the sad tragedy of a trip like this is that we’ve done so much, and seen so much, it is hard to fit it all in. To process it all and file it away. Memories will fade until all I remember is what is written in blog posts.

As I mourned the fading clarity of this incredible trip, we passed a new memorial, so to speak. Three white plaster busts of Presidents Ronald Reagan, George Bush, and George W. Bush stood in a grouping just off the road. Each bust about ten feet tall, they were surrounded by American flags and plaques honoring their contributions to history.

Jokes were made in the car about defacing the Republican statues, especially that of Ronald Reagan. Despite his huge popularity in the eighties and his continued adulation from many conservative groups, dissension from his iconic image has become common within circles that are more liberal. This was the case for some of my fellow passengers.

For me, it got me thinking again. About how history warps memory. How quickly opinions change. How quickly the truth fades. I wondered if opinion would shift for the three presidents at the roadside memorial, just as opinions have shifted for each of the four presidents on the mountain. I wondered what history would decide about our recent leaders, and especially how President Obama will be written in history.

We drove on toward Roosevelt, Jefferson, Washington, and Lincoln and I promised myself to try and remember this trip, instead of just record it. To truly experience each place we go to, and to fully appreciate the people I’m with along the way, because eventually history will be written, and it’ll be sure to differ from my own viewpoint. I want the memory before it’s carved in stone.

The Cost of Living

Day two of our national park tour did not actually feature a national park. Our bus has had some problems along the way, so the need to get it checked out, combined with some heavy driving time for Ken in our rented van led to the decision to stay out of the park.

Instead, we went white water rafting down the Yellowstone River, just outside of the park in Gardiner, Montana. Our route down the river took us along the border of the park, passed Mammoth Peak, Sepulcher Point, Electric Peak, and the Devil’s Slide as we paddled our way to the take out point.

After the rafting, we headed to Chico Hot Springs, a small vacation spot centered around a pool heated by geothermal hot springs. The group seemed to appreciate the chance to relax their muscles after 18 days of bus living. Topped off with dinner in Bozeman, the day was fairly relaxed.

Still, there’s a strange dichotomy to the tourism of national parks. Driven by the desire to preserve the beauty of nature and share it with the rest of the country and beyond, we have fenced in nature and started charging admission. It’s not quite up to the Joni Mitchell level of “paving paradise”, but it’s close.

It’s a theme we’ve seen throughout most of the nature parks, and really throughout most of the trip. A passion for a place, interest, or idea usually leads to ticket prices. Interesting, considering that most of the highlights for our group have been the free experiences.

It is entirely possible that our enthusiasm for free experiences is due to the fact that we are college students at a private university. But it seems like the atmosphere changes when the goal is not to make money. We’re more focused on the people we meet and the world around us when the primary goal is not how much money can be extracted from our pockets.

We’ve seen some of the simplest acts of community and generosity in family dinners with the Bhulas and the Silversmiths, in the work being done in St. Bernard Parish, and even within our own group. That’s not to discount the experiences we’ve had to pay for. I think we would all agree white-water rafting was worth the cost. Looking back on this trip, I know I’ll remember the Grand Canyon, and the Space Needle in Seattle, and Disneyland.

But I’ll remember the trips in the vans, swapping stories and music more. I’ll remember the hug Fannie Silversmith gave to me the night we left the Navajo reservation more. I’ll remember the moments of simple generosity more, because paradise isn’t something you can charge admission prices for.

Into the Wild

We’ve encountered a lot of “wilderness” so far on this trip. The Southwest desert in Navajoland, the Grand Canyon, the Rocky Mountains, the Redwoods….We’ve spent a lot of time in cities along the way, and venturing out into country to see nature has been a soothing balance for our tired, over-stimulated heads.

Two days ago it was time for Glacier National Park. We loaded up on a breakfast of eggs and hot chocolate, bought all of the necessities of a proper cookout and headed into the park. It was cold and rainy, and a few of the other campers weren’t exactly eager to share their site with twelve boisterous people, but the park was beautiful, the water still, and the air refreshing.

I’m a “country girl”, raised in a Midwestern small town, who spent most of her childhood dreaming of cities and urban life. It didn’t really matter where, as long as the movie theaters are open after 9pm and the idea of nightlife was more than just 2am runs to the 24-hour Wal-Mart for taquitos and diet Mountain Dew.

As much time as I’ve spent running from the country, it’s still my home, and this trip has made me appreciate it that much more. I’ve loved almost every city we’ve been through, but the chance to be in nature really makes me wonder if we’re the “wild” ones. The crazed and gritty urban hustle seems like madness compared to the mist that covers a crystal clear lake as rain falls over the mountains.

Our quest for civilization seems so silly when you look at the clear order of things in nature, the peace that comes when every aspect of life is stripped down to its basics. The security that can be found in knowing you are nothing more than a part of the life cycle.

I still love the city, the ability to disappear down busy streets and all the amenities that come with urban wilderness. But I would take the wild stillness of Montana lakes in the rain any day.

My Kind of Town

Seattle is one of the cities I looked forward to most at the start of this trip, mostly because so many people associate me with it. In conversations with roommates and old friends, we’d try to place each other in cities according to our personality, making the art of stereotyping a game. Every time, someone would place me in Seattle, and I was eager to find out why.

As we stood in line for the requisite Starbucks purchases the morning we arrived in the city, I mentioned that eagerness to Rashina, telling her I was curious to see why I was such a “Seattle person”. She immediately started pointing out the “coffeehouse culture” identity with which Seattle is so often associated. A culture many people associate with black rimmed glasses, artistic writer-types, and introverted personalities.

We headed into Pike’s Place Market to buy some trinkets, see some fish get thrown, and talk to some of the people working. I ventured through the market, munching on some of the freshest produce I’ve ever tasted, offered to me by friendly young salesmen with that gaunt, vegan look about them. I talked to the angry, pierced, anarchists in the left-wing bookstore who seemed wary of my questions, but eager to voice their opinions.

I’d only been in the city a few hours, but already I could see why people thought I’d fit in there. There’s a deep look to one’s eyes when you look inside your own head too often. It’s both serenity and aching desire to understand yourself and life around you. I saw that look everywhere I went, reflecting the look in my own.

I sat down with one of the thousands of acoustic folk guitarists with slightly raspy voices and a broken heart in the city and talked with him about his reasons for being in Seattle and his thoughts on American culture. He talked about the immigrants to New York, shipping their lives to a new world because the old world didn’t have room for them. Moving west when New York was too packed in to hold them. Moving west when the east didn’t have time for them. Moving west when the Midwest didn’t understand them. Moving west when the mountains demanded too much of them.

“So we all huddled together in the corner, staring out on the ocean and trying to figure out who we are in the only place that has the patience for a bunch of introspective geeks.” He smiled and dug into the Thai food leftovers he was sharing with his friend, looking up at her as she started another song on a beat up guitar.

The thought stuck through the rest of the day, through a tour of the Seattle underground, a loud, entertaining dinner with the group at Icon, and a trip up the Space Needle to watch the sun set over the harbor. I wasn’t so sure what living with a bunch of quiet nerdy types like me would do to my psyche, but the city has a quiet energy and dry humor that makes me smile.
I asked Rashina on the trip back to the bus if she still thought I fit in with Seattle. She laughed and said, “Hell, I think I could live in Seattle.” I think I could, too. It seems like my kind of corner to huddle in.

Heads Up

We're leaving this evening for Glacier National Park, Yellowstone the next day, and South Dakota after that. Those areas of the country are not renowned for their bustling urban areas and strong wireless signals. The same goes for my phone signal.

So if you don't see me updating for the next few days, please do not worry (mom). I am confident in Reuben (our driver), Ken, and Andi to keep us safe and sound in the national parks. I promise not to get eaten by bears and post as soon as I can.

We were in Seattle today, and all seemed to love it. I'm working on a blog for it now, and will hopefully have it up before we lose the signal.

Take care of yourselves!

Love,
H

The College Years

If L.A. is high school, Portland is college. The drama of high school is exchanged in search of personal identity, be it through the strangest possible hobbies or the most classic career paths. And everyone seems just a little bit grimy, like they chose to read or discuss Baudelaire instead of showering before heading out for their day. It's grungy, it's weird, and I really, really liked it.

We started out at Voodoo Donuts, the Pancake Pantry of Portland. By the time we got there, a line out the door and around the corner had begun to form. All for donuts covered in Coco Puffs, Fruit Loops, Oreo, or bacon. Recently featured in Anthony Bourdain's "No Reservations" on the Travel Channel, Voodoo was the kind of kitschy place every city of comparable size needs, with a strong blend of local regulars and curious tourists.

I had a donut with Coco Puffs and toured the Saturday market on the riverfront, which, while much larger, reminded me of the farmer's markets and festivals back home in Illinois. Organic clothing, natural soaps, crafty jewelry and bags, earthenware, henna, flowers, cat toys and food stands full of ethnic cuisine dipped in grease.

I spoke with one Greenpeace volunteer who said she'd like to see America united by a common goal towards the well being and health of their fellow humans, and it got me thinking, "Don't we?" Definitions are changed up, and how we definite "common goal" may vary, but for the most part, most people want what they think is best for themselves, their loved ones, and their fellow man. with few exceptions, there are not many people who explicitly wish ill will upon other men and women.

Perhaps my definition of "well being" may not include "EPA regulations on all greenhouse gases" but I'd like to think I'm a pretty charitable girl. The thought stuck with me, and came up again when I sat in Powell's Books with Amir, a thirty-something man reading in the foreign language section of the store. He was reading up on Anarchism and Libertarianism, though he considered himself a Socialist, himself. He was trying to decide between learning Chinese or Hindi, as he anticipated one of the two would be the next superpower, and his language skills might help in the impending transition. I told him if he wanted socialism, he should be learning Swedish, but he just laughed and said, "Honey, the reason Sweden is so happy being socialist is because it's homogeneous. There's not room for me there."

He explained that because the majority race and class is SO extensive, Swedes see their neighbors as brothers and sisters. They look alike, they act alike, they work alike, so socialism is easy. America could never make it work because there are too many wedges, too many reasons for people to hate, too many chances for politicians to step on those wedges on their way to power, driving them deeper into American culture. If America was all one race, it'd get along fine, too.

While I'm not sure I buy into the homogeneous claims, he does make an interesting point. Is our multiculturalism actually a weak point? If we were all similar, chance are greater our unity would be as well. Our causes would be similar, our forms of communication much easier to navigate, but our world would be that much more boring, wouldn’t it?

Our trip is supposed to be focusing on what unites us as Americans, and it’s not always easy to find that unity, but on days like these, I wonder if what unites us is our disunity. We’re a dysfunctional family, America, all going in different ways, pulling at different issues, trying to make the rest of the group see it our way. It’s not effective, but it certainly is a universal factor of social movements in this country. It is certainly “American” to disagree and protest. We started that way, and we’ll probably end the same way.

But there is a beauty to that, too. We’re all pulling and fighting, but we also have our bases covered. Every issue has a voice, and gets a voice here. I can’t deny I disagreed with Greenpeace girl and Amir both, but I’m glad they’ve found a way to put words to their passions. I’m glad I got to hear them and learn.

At dinner, Pierce said Portland feels like it’s full of those weird kids who never said anything during high school and you always wondered where they went after graduation. It was definitely weird, but I don’t think it’s a high school kind of town. Portland feels more like a crazy liberal arts university, full of kids trying to figure out who they are and how they stand out against the rest of their world. They’re the college students of America, and I have to say, I kind of love it.

Going into the Woods

I wish I could find the words to explain the feelings and thoughts that pass through your head when you hike through the Redwood forest.

One of my closest friends speaks about vast empty spaces with a kind of wistfulness. He struggles to explain the emotions is brings up in him when he pictures barren deserts or huge empty rooms painted white with pale mid-afternoon light streaming in through vast windows. I think the feelings he has for vast space are what I have for forests.

I felt humbled, both by the sheer size of the trees, but also by their history. My life is a mere blip on their time-line. The woods are almost silent in reverence of that history. As you near the river, the bugs (and therefore the birds) start to buzz and chirp, but on the hills, every snap and crunch of human feet on twigs seems risky, as though the trees might wake up.

Every fallen tree brought up a great sadness at the loss of such a giant, but it quickly mixed with pride and amazement that every inch of the fallen trees were covered in mosses and clovers, even new trees starting to grow. The forest was very much alive, and I felt a strong connection to it as I hiked down the trail.

The emotions I felt in the woods ranged from sadness to anger to embarrassment to awe, joy, hope, and total, beautiful peace. Much like the emotions I feel on this trip. We’ve seen and experienced some amazing places and some terrible things, both. We’ve bonded and conflicted as a group, and settled into a familial groove, with all the bumps and laughs that come with family. We’ve been totally overwhelmed and totally exhausted by the entire experience, and we’re about ¼ of the way through it.

I couldn’t help but think about the famous Thoreau quote, “I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

Ken asked us in the woods if any of us regretted the decision to do this trip. It’s not an easy road to take. The work is hard, the hours are long, the costs are high and the stress is...well, not easy to manage. But I don’t regret the decision. I’m glad I went into the woods, because if nothing else, I know that for these few weeks, I have truly lived, and lived deliberately.

Sing it, Tony Bennett

Walking through the financial district of San Francisco with the group, I told Cory that the city felt like Chicago to me. We immediately started drawing the comparisons: similar architectural types, similar gay communities, similar focus on immigrant populations and communities, similar love of art, food, and culture, similar vibe.

Maybe that's why I liked it so much. We've been to a few cities now that have had me thinking I could live there. There's even been one or two where I thought, "I could get off the bus here and stay a while longer." But San Francisco was the first that allowed me to picture myself there, showing my family the sights when they came to visit, putting down roots and building a life there.

Maybe it is just the Chicago vibes I felt coming off of it. Maybe it was just the stark contrast between L.A. and San Francisco in my mind. Where L.A. seemed so exclusive and judgmental, San Fransisco seemed practiced in acceptance and going with the flow. The gay community didn’t seem celebrated because it is considered cosmopolitan to be gay friendly, it was celebrated because they truly supported the strong community that was built in the Castro district.

It certainly wasn’t perfect. San Francisco is one of the largest ports for sex traffickers in the United States, and it did have it’s less celebrated areas, but there seemed to be a good blend of cultures, classes, and people.

It was a city that seemed to have a place for everyone. I didn’t feel judged and, aside from a humorously confusing trip on the public transit, I never felt like a tourist. It felt like home.

The great tragedy being of course, it’s is one of the most expensive cities we visit on this trip. Someday though, I’ll save up my pennies and manage to pour my life savings into a cozy, 150 sq. foot apartment. And I’ll fit right in.

All Good Things Come to an End

The west coast is a new experience for me, as I’ve never been west of Utah before this trip, so I didn’t know what to expect of California at all. I had suspicions and presumptions based on the heavy media focus on California, but I tried to shove them aside as we ventured from Big Mama (our bus) and into Los Angeles for two days.

We spent the first day in Santa Monica and Huntington Beach, exploring the beaches and surf communities that have become so famous (or infamous, if you’re not a fan of “dude” culture). Aside from a visit to Entertainment Tonight’s studio, the day was lazy, spent napping on the beach and enjoying the absolutely perfect weather. We ended the night with frozen yogurt and fish tacos in at Huntington Beach’s Surf City Nights Festival, watching the crowds and listening to some amazing music.

Day two was spent at Disneyland, then Sunset Boulevard. We passed through Beverly Hills and Rodeo Drive on our way to Disneyland, but the majority of the day was spent in those places examining the polar opposite of the surfer vibe: consumerism and fantasy.

Having gained a small view of Los Angeles prior to arriving at Disneyland, I can see why Walt Disney wanted to create a childlike fantasyland: L.A. has yet to grow up. There is little history there, and what is valued as history is either the works of film (dating back maybe a century) or the works of subcultures like surfers, skateboarders, or fashion designers. While there is a strong Mexican and Native American history to California, the closest it came to prevalence during our visit was the little Mexican children in the “It’s a Small World” ride at Disneyland.

With such a strong focus on the present, and such a strong focus on beauty and fitness, it’s hard to ignore the underlying egoism I found in L.A. Even the people driving along the 405 seemed so isolated in their own worlds, not even talking to the other passengers of their car (if they even had passengers. Seriously, if ever a city has needed public transit and carpool lanes, it’s L.A.). Interactions seemed stilted and disdainful, as though the people I spoke to seemed resentful that I had snapped them from their reverie.

The great irony of our two days was the most welcoming place we found in L.A. was the ET studio. Mary Hart and her family spoke with us, laughing about old jobs at Dollywood and shared wrist injuries. The camera guys let us take a picture on the stage and filled us in on the details. The director of the show let us watch him work, even though his show had to be finalized and sent out in less than 30 minutes. The assistants we spoke will all invited us back, if we ever passed through town again. How strange that the show known for celebrity gossip and entertainment news showed us the greatest sense of community and hospitality.

It was hard to see that contrast with Huntington Beach, where the couples seemed to be together because their outfits coordinated and less because of genuine affection.

I’m probably being too harsh. I’d like to go back to L.A. and try it again, on my own time. I refuse to write off an entire city based on one experience. But the whole city felt like high school to me. The maligned television show offered the nicest people, while all the beautiful people either ignored you, or judged you with contempt.

I’ve been trying to come up with a decent simile for L.A. since we first got there, and nothing seems quite right, but the closest I can come to is this: L.A. was like the girlfriend you never expected to say “yes” when you asked her out. She’s too rich, too beautiful, too…something you can’t quite place, but you know it’s not going to be long before she moves on with a sly, disdainful grin. Years later, you look back and realize she was never right for you anyway, but man, it felt good when she said “yes”.

If only it had lasted.

A haiku for Vegas

-----------------------------------
plastic fishnet sex
adopt a hungry, lean look
false playground of men.
-----------------------------------

Okay, so that doesn't quite cover Las Vegas. But I will say Vegas is the first city to live up to my exact expectations. I wrote to a friend as we pulled into the city, saying I expected Vegas to be "1/3 desert, 1/3 casino opulence, 1/3 white trash outskirts, and all sex." But I did plan to keep an open mind to the possibility that it, like every other city would surprise me.

I think the only thing that surprised me the was cooler weather.

Vegas seems to be the Disneyworld of greedy, misguided adults, with fantasies constructed down to the finest detail to ensure that they can play (and spend money) without worry of retribution or the return of a conscience.

Maybe that's why it was the first place along the trip to really show signs of struggle thanks to the economic downturn. Hedonism is costly, but it can be found at a lower rate than Vegas likes to offer. And when a city's entire economic system is supported by such tourism, it's easy to see where the gaming tables stand empty, the convention bureau's representative seems desperate, and the shops inside the Venetian Hotel seem empty even as thousands of tourists walk along the indoor canals.

Here is a city known for its wealth and glamour, but most of it seemed like Bourbon Street in New Orleans. The only difference is, Bourbon Street seems tucked under wrought iron balconies and narrow streets like a seedy red light district of old. The vibe then is one of shame...almost like it's embarrassed by how much fun it's having being sinful.

Vegas embraces it, throws back the curtain and does a little jig in a full, glittering gown. You have to look closely to see the stain on the front of her dress.

Indivisible

The lights had just gone down in the theater when we arrived in the foyer of the "Damn These Heels" Film Festival in Salt Lake City. We rushed up the stairs to the balcony in the back and tripped through the darkness to our seats just as the film started to play...only to have the film halt right as we found seats for our group.

The lights came up and the manager rushed out to explain the glitch in the aspect ratio while the dvd menu looped on the big screen. We looked at each other and shrugged stopping to take advantage of the light to acclimate ourselves to the room. We were at showing of "Outrage", a documentary by Kirby Dick exploring the closeted homosexuals in the U.S. government. We came to the theater to contrast our visit to the Mormon Temple Square, wanting to explore a wide range of culture in Salt Lake, instead of just focusing on the Mormons, so we included a stop in the gay community, one that Mormonism largely (and vocally) excludes.

To be honest, I think we were all shocked by how full the theater was. In a state known for a conservative religion, there were a lot of gay people around. We settled in and struck up conversations with the people around us, going through the usual spiel of who we are, where we're from, what we're doing, etc.

One woman and her guy friend started talking with Jenni and I, asking questions about the trip. She seemed interested in the project, and as the lights dimmed again, she slipped me her card and whispered, "Let's talk after the show." I glanced down at the card in the light of my cell phone: It was Jackie Biskupski, Democrat in the Utah House of Representatives.

We talked after the show, and she wished the group the best of luck. Her friend said the same, saying, "It's good to hear that the next generation is doing something better than us. Hopefully you'll do better than we have. Or at least pick up the baton."

We came to Salt Lake City searching for American culture and found two subcultures so starkly opposed to one another that it was difficult to find unity there. I thought about it on the drive back to the bus, struggling to find a link between them. Between all the hurt feelings and misunderstanding.

Maybe what links them is their feelings of being misunderstood. Maybe what America is is just a group of people feeling misunderstood, semi-categorized into groups of similar misunderstanding, forming one huge, tangled and patriotic Venn diagram.

Or maybe hope is the unifying factor. Hope in the future generations. The Mormon tour guides were all young women serving as missionaries for their church, helping Mormonism become one of the fastest growing religions in the world. The gay community was staking hope in the younger generations to find a better level of understanding and mutual compassion between multiple sexual orientations and groups.

It's probably more than that, but as a member of the future generation, if unity is the important factor in American culture, we need to start picking up the baton. Unity needs to be more than just between "the enemy of my enemy". America needs to be more than just the umbrella term for a series of groups who can't understand each other. If we truly are one nation, we have some work to do.

Few Things

Contrary to my mother's frantic e-mails, I am not dead!

We're having some troubles with internet connections out here on the road. When we do have a signal at all, there are so many people using the signal that it becomes impossible to load sites, so uploading blogs, posting photos, and answering e-mails becomes a three hour ordeal for most of us. Not to mention that we're all operating on a special level of exhaustion. ;)

I'm trying to update as often as I can, but if you don't hear from me in a while, don't instantly assume that I have fallen in the Grand Canyon or been abducted by aliens....Mom.

Despite the troubles with the internet, I almost always have phone reception. Minus a few parks, and when we're driving through desert wasteland, my phone is up and working. And incoming calls are free for me, so please don't hesitate to call! I miss hearing from ya'll. If we're in class or busy, I'll try to get back to you asap, but for the most part, I should be able to answer. The time changes are killing me, so I'm wary to call back home, for fear that you'll get 1am phone calls from me, thinking it's early evening. But seeing as we're doing 16+ hour days, it's a safe bet to assume that I'm awake.

Also, I'm loving the comments I'm getting, either here, or in my e-mail, or on Facebook. It helps me think, knowing what people are seeing in my writing. Keep it up!

Thanks for all of your support so far. I love and miss you all.
H

Remembering the View

Growing up, my parents loaded my brother and I into the car with our luggage, some books, and picnic lunches of salami, cheddar cheese, apple slices, and Diet Coke. We drove all over the country, visiting family, resorts, and every antique shop, art gallery, farm implements museum, or historical marker along the way. We had a good time, even if we wanted to kill each other by the time we got back, and we saw a lot of the country in the process.

Unfortunately, I remember very little that we didn’t capture in photographs. I was too young, too busy bickering with Josh, too sick of being in the car to remember much of our trips. I recall some things…Mom clinging to a telephone pole ten feet from whatever ledge or cliff my brother and I were dangling over, begging us to get back from the edge. Dad commenting on every vista, every waterfall, saying “I wouldn’t mind this in my backyard”.

I remember the family moments, either playing games or laughing, or fighting, more than I remember the sights and resorts. I remember the people we met, be it Bikers for Jesus, the hiking guide who proved to me that some Canadians really do say “eh”, or the woman in the string bikini who had apparently planned the same trip as us, as we met her one week in Florida and the next week in Virginia.

But for the most part, the mountains, the wide stretches of cornfields, the ornate buildings and amazing beaches are not filed in my head, but in snapshots and paintings.

I thought about that yesterday as I stood on a trail just inside the Grand Canyon. Pierce, Emily and I were resting along the trail, taking in the view and talking about friends back home, when a young mother and her daughter passed. They stopped and looked out on the Canyon and the girl leaned against her mother, complaining about the climb.

The mother held her close and said, “Just remember this. I don’t remember a lot of the trips I took when I was eight, and sometimes you’re not lucky enough to go back to those places. So remember this.”

I hope the girl does. I hope I managed to capture the Canyon in my memory (and camera) enough to fully appreciate the experience. I hope I do the same when we revisit some of the places I went to with my family as a kid. I’m lucky enough to get to go back to some of them.

But I also hope I remember the family moments, be it with my own, or my makeshift family for these forty days. Talking with Em and Pierce on the rim is more important to me than any panoramic photo of a Canyon. Remembering the way my family laughed together on the sides of mountains is more important than any photo with my feet dangling over the edge of a cliff. Not that I didn’t take one just to tease you, Mom.

We’re heading towards Salt Lake City today, a city I’ve been to before, and a city I remember almost nothing about, besides the Great Salt Lake being a major disappointment. I hope I remember it better this time.

Navajo Cookies

Two days ago, I had a spiritual experience through a sandwich cookie.

We spent the day in Navajoland with Leland Silversmith, a jewelry maker and storyteller who lives with his family on their farmland, raising sheep. When we arrived we sat in the family’s Hogan (which is now a church, as his father is a Christian minister) and heard the story of his family and the hard times of the Navajo. His mother prepared Navajo tacos for us for lunch, and opened their home to twelve strangers.

After lunch we traveled through the beautiful lands of Eastern Arizona to Window Rock, to see the eponymous stone formation, tour the Navajo Nation’s capital building, and meet the editor of the Navajo Times for a tour of their facilities.

Everywhere we went we were greeted eagerly with stories of strength, tragedy, survival and pride in one’s heritage, and it really inspired many of my classmates. We each found something beautiful in Navajoland, be it the people’s stories, the way a niece my age respected and cared for her elders, the way their raspberry jam reminded many of us of our own grandmas’ jam recipes, or just the sheer power of the mountains surrounding their home.

We explored those mountains when Lee took us out to find some of the sheep who had separated from the flock. (While we didn’t find the sheep, they were found safe and sound in the front yard of the Silversmith’s home while we were in the mountains hunting for them. Sheep-herding may be a skill, but long-distance sheep-herding…that’s a talent).

We filled the day with history, beauty, and community, but the best part of the day for me was when we returned to the house after sheep-herding, fully intending to leave for Gallup, to get out of the Silversmiths way before we became a burden, only to find them setting up tables and cooking for us again.

They shared their food, their home, their history, and their lives with us, sitting around a folding table eating hamburgers and tossed salad, watching the sunset behind their mountains, and I couldn’t help but be humbled by it all.

A few of my classmates will talk about the history of the Navajo, the atrocities that take place at the hands of European settlers and eventually the U.S. Government, and the continued struggles they have, even just to protect their lands from “imminent domain”. It is a story that needs to be told, understood, and changed.

But I have to admit, the story didn’t strike me as deeply as watching an eighty-three year old woman put chocolate and vanilla sandwich cookies into a bowl and ask me to take them out to share with the group, along with a stack of paper cups and a half gallon of milk. A simple dessert for a simple meal, but it was shared with such heartfelt hospitality and blessing…I swear it was the best sandwich cookie I’ve ever tasted.

They shared a few more stories and gave us their blessings. We swapped hats, t-shirts, e-mail addresses, and prayers. They made us each write down our street addresses with promises of Christmas cards and periodic updates. In less than a day, our little group had bonded with theirs to become a family, united by a shared experience and the peace found in community.
We drove away from their home as the sky was starting to grow darker, and I couldn’t help but reflect on the communities we’ve seen, and the communities I’m a part of. In nearly every city we’ve visited thus far, we’ve encountered communities who have all opened their arms to us and given us more than we expected. As Ken during in the drive back, “No matter what happens on this trip, if I don’t come back a better person, I’ve done something wrong”.

I hope I come back a better person. I hope I remember the beauty of companionship and generosity, even in something as simple as a sandwich cookie.

The One with All the Gift Shops

As I walked through the UFO Museum in Roswell, New Mexico, I couldn’t help but be struck by the interesting dichotomy they presented. On one hand, it was a thorough, researched series of displays obviously constructed by people with a real passion for their experiences. On the other, the typos, warehouse style architecture, and ties to popular culture (such as the “X-Files” posters featured between displays on crop circles and historical references to the extraterrestrial) suggested a clapboard museum pieced together by amateurs.

It was the gift shop that made me think though. As I exited the displays and entered the shop to my right, I was confronted by shelves of little green men featured on postcards, bumper stickers, t-shirts, key chains, and everything you could possibly imagine. This museum had just spent the last hour trying to convince me that the focus there was serious and that the accounts of abduction were not to be taken lightly, and now they fully intended to make as much money off of those ideals as possible, by any means necessary.

I was turned off, both by the museum’s absurdity and by the overt capitalism that made it even harder to respect them. But as the day wore on and the jokes of UFO’s and tin-foil hats kept going strong, I couldn’t help but think back to our time in El Paso, TX the day before. We spent the day with Lounell, a relative of one of my best friends, who works for a defense contractor. She took us on a tour of Fort Bliss, introduced many of the group to their first Mercado, and treated us to a great meal at a Tex/Mex restaurant (Thanks Aunt Lounell!)

As we walked around the grounds of Fort Bliss, passing retired Cobras, Ajaxs, and Patriot Missiles (both active and retired) we heard a lot about the strength and efficiency of the Armed Forces and the values of America that they serve to defend: Freedom, Honor, Liberty, Justice….Patriotic values we hold to close to our hearts in this country. Patriotism so devout that other countries struggle to understand our fervor, even as they might envy the values we enjoy….all accompanied by a gift shop, of course. The “God Bless America” flags, pins, lapels, and marmalades featured in the Fort Bliss museum shop all seemed to say “We’re the land of the free, the home of the brave and we now we fully intend to make as much money as possible…by any means necessary.

As the saying goes, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

We’re a capitalist society, and we’re pretty good at it. I can’t fault either the UFO museum or Fort Bliss for trying to make a buck off of their passions and interests. To be American is to be capitalist, really. It’s just hard to stomach the clear and unabashed love of money that comes with such economic ideals when we’re standing next to $900,000 homes built by retired government contractors, watching the sunset over Juarez, Chihuahua, Mexico. Seeing the sharp contrast in the houses, the roads, and the culture separated only by a glorified creek bed, it’s hard not to wonder what the people of Juarez think it means to be an American. It’s hard not to wonder if we’re right to make as much money as possible by any means necessary. It’s hard not to wonder if I’m that much different from the people I judged to be absurd at the UFO museum.

I understand that being American is more than just capitalist ideals. I also understand that even being able to write this without fear of more than a lecture from my parents and some dissenting views in the comments is a right I wouldn’t have in some countries (including a few non-capitalist societies). And I certainly don’t mean this as a critique of the ideals Fort Bliss protects and serves. I just wonder where we should draw the line and say, “These values are too important to be sullied by one more little green man (or one more bald eagle holding a flag) on a vinyl cling.” I wonder if the love of money in this country gets in the way of being able to really respect what we hold to be most important.

Or maybe I just don’t like gift shops.

...And in All Things, Love

We had a lighter day in San Antonio. After four days of fairly heavy emotional experiences, we took some time off today. A visit to the Alamo, the Riverwalk, and some interviews all along the way really gave the opportunity to unpack our first few days of travels and catch up on sleep (and our blogs!)

The beauty of San Antonio was the unexpected acceptance of many peoples. We met conservatives, liberals, Caucasians, Hispanics, African Americans, homosexuals, heterosexuals, Texans and tourists, and they all seemed bound by a common creed: "Being an American means having the freedom to do whatever the hell you want...within reason."

We spend some time talking to locals and tourists, and we pressed them to explain what "within reason" is, every one of them responded with "don't go breaking any laws or anything, but do what you like."

I really liked that. It reminded me of the tenants of the restoration movement in the Christian church: "Where God speaks: unity. Where God is silent: liberty. And in all things: love." Replace "God" with "The law" and you have the apparent credo of San Antonio.

It is interesting to consider how much Christianity has influenced the different places we've seen. Be it discussions of "The Church of Capitalism" or overt links between country music and Christian faith, or the abilities (as well as the failings) of the church to aid civil rights efforts and relief work following tragedies. In New Orleans Andi pointed out the back of the St. Louis Cathedral as we walked towards Bourbon street, and I mused that in this case, the church had quite literally turned its back on the debauchery and flagrant escapism of the French Quarter. We've seen the church a lot, but always in the background of our discussions.

It really challenges my ways of seeing America now, having grown up being taught that America was founded on Christian principles by Christian men who wrote the Constitution to allow for "Freedom OF religion, not freedom FROM religion" And yet, religion hasn't made itself known in the American culture we've seen and experienced. Overt displays of Christian faith have been almost universally linked with the abuse of power and the hunger for money. Covert displays of Christianity have been more varied, but even then it hasn't been to the degree I would have expected.

I've grown up in the church, on the outskirts of the Bible Belt, where the church is the lens through which all others are examined, but so far, it hasn't been seen much at all. I can't help but wonder why that is, and what that says about my preconceived notions of America. Maybe we just haven't found that aspect of American culture yet. Maybe it just isn't as prevalent anymore.

Either way, I liked the vibe I found in San Antonio. Dare I say, I like Texas, so far. Tomorrow is El Paso, so we'll see if I've changed my mind.

Our Home and Native Land

Yesterday Cory wrote about the communities we saw in Little Rock, and the community we're building as a group. I couldn't help but think about that as we moved onto New Orleans and into St. Bernard Parish. I'll admit, I didn't know anything about St. Bernard Parish until I started planning the service project for the day, but we started to realize quickly exactly what it meant to be a member of that community as soon as we arrived.

We went to the local community center to offer our help for the morning, cleaning and processing new donations, organizing the clothing drive, helping people work their way through the food pantry, and doing whatever they needed help doing. I was one of the team sent out to the shed to help wash off a shipment of laundry detergents and dryer sheets that had been soaked by a few busted bottles. As we drug the soaked boxes out of the shed and dipped the bottles in water to rinse them clean (and waited thirty seconds for them to dry in the New Orleans sun) we started talking to Steve and Thomas, two volunteers at the center.

Steve has some of the most tragically beautiful stories I've ever heard. He told us of his losses, of his own personal story, of his frustrations with Katrina recovery. He told us he lost seven cats, one dog, his home, all of his possessions, and nine months later (largely because his insurance would not pay) he lost his wife of 42 years.

"But I had more than most people. I had 42 years with the woman I love. Most people can't say that."

Thomas jumped in with his thick Scottish brogue to tell us his story of coming to New Orleans for four days...fourteen years ago. When the storm hit nine years later, he said he couldn't just leave people behind.."and besides, I was just starting to sober up." So he stayed, and he worked, and he's still there.

"I couldn't leave my people." He said. His people being a motorcyclist who rode from Canada to help in the relief effort and decided to stay longer, a New Yorker who came down to help set up computers for the center and never left, and a few hundred survivors still waiting for their lives to get back to a sense of normalcy. I'll admit...I almost couldn't leave either.

To be a part of something, to feel that strong sense of community that comes with being united by tragedy and a common experience. No matter where they came from, that seems pretty American to me.

Untold Stories

(NOTE: Apologies to all! I had some trouble getting comments to work on my blog. Apparently the layout HTML was interfering with the link. It should be working now. Please let me know if that isn't the case.)

We're actually wrapping up our day in New Orleans (stay tuned for that post) but I'm finally getting a chance to talk about Little Rock, and touch a little more on Memphis.

I think the trend of the last few days has been "The story left untold", which really became apparent to me as we traveled through Little Rock yesterday. Starting out at Central High School, where the Little Rock Nine became famous during the desegregation of the South, I couldn't shake the powerful feeling of history...and the sense of shame for not knowing it already. I sat and watched the Nine talk about their experiences as I looked out on the school itself and realized just how important this moment was.

So how have I come to be a senior in college without knowing and understanding its importance?

It's partially because schools in America teach along a timeline, and are forced to cram 300+ years of history into 9 months of education, so the last bits get missed. But it's partially because America shies away from its own dark parts of history. Even at the memorial museum for Central High School, they featured plaques for other moments of civil rights, including women's suffrage, but neglected to mention that early women's suffragists argued that white men needed white women to vote, since black men were gaining the right to vote as well. It featured the story of Emmitt Till, who's death and funeral helped fuel the dialectic surrounding civil rights, but failed to mention the "crime" for which he was murdered was actually offensive and degrading to women. It included plaques for race, gender, class, and disability rights, but failed to mention any call for gay rights.

I looked at these plaques (or lack thereof) and couldn't help but hear the old aphorism from George Santayana: "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." A cliche that stuck with me as we moved on to the Clinton Presidential Library. No matter my personal feelings on Clinton, the museum was impressive, with one glaring omission: Monica Lewinsky. Yes, the scandal surrounding her was only one part of one year of his political career. Yes, the man's presidency shouldn't be overshadowed by one personal failing. But he did fail. He did lie. And it did happen. Failing to acknowledge that in his own museum, in even the briefest way, made me question when America will learn to own mistakes. When will we learn to do so in our own lives?

The thought stayed with me all night as we ate dinner (Kitchen Express was one of the best Meat and Threes I've ever had), headed to church and left for New Orleans. There is another side to every story. That's something we're going to struggle with throughout this trip as we explore these cities. Memphis was certainly not anyone's favorite city, but we didn't see everything to see there. Though Rashina IS a local of Memphis and picked sites she felt created a good blend of tourist attractions and local culture, A) she couldn't show us everything, and B) most of us won't be local ambassadors of the cities we explore. We have to rely on tourism boards, travel guides, local opinions, and our own eyes to try and scrape together an overview of each cities culture. Not to mention that we're dealing with specific time constraints, financial limits, and basic logistical issues that come with living on a bus for 40 days.

Things are going to be missed. Stories are going to remain untold. I may go back to Memphis and find a completely different experience. I might even like Memphis. Or I might hate Little Rock the next time. Who knows?

It's going to be the biggest challenge, finding those stories, understanding as much as we can about a city whilst understanding that we will never get the full experience. But it's also going to be the most fun.

Good Luck Keeping "Walking in Memphis" Out of Your Head

It was a long first day in Memphis, seeing as it started at 4am. Most of us slept on the trip from Nashville to Memphis this morning, but even those few hours of sleep couldn't prepare us for the day ahead.

Peabody Hotel offered us the famous Duck March, which was...admittedly...anti-climactic. After years of hearing about the ducks in Memphis, I was expecting some song and dance. Maybe a little choreography. I just wasn't prepared for the ducks to sprint across the lobby through a flurry of camera flashes, hop in a fountain, and have that be it. I wanted spectacle. A little dazzle. But the ducks had no dazzle. They just wanted to go to the pool.

Thankfully, Beale Street offered plenty of "dazzle". We had some great barbecue for lunch (as well as sweet tea that fully encompassed the rule that "Tea should be so sweet, if you run out of syrup, you can pour it over your pancakes.") A brief walking tour of Beale Street proved helpful, but overwhelming, as we saw tourists of every size, shape, and color roam the street in search of something with just the right blend of kitsch, southern pride, blues heritage, and total absurdity with Cajun influences. I almost bought a belly button duster, but thought better of it.

But for all of Beale Street's special blend of tourist and attraction contributing to my over stimulation, nothing could prepare me for Graceland. The mirrors and colors and costumes and memorabilia available to be purchased at any of their THREE gift shops. It made my heart race as we were herded like sheep onto the shuttle and guided through the house. My fists clenched at my sides as I tried to block out the images bombarding me constantly. Elvis is not only a god to some people at Graceland, he is an omnipresent one.

I think I hit a wall with Memphis by the time we left Graceland. Proud as I was for facing my fear of all things Elvis related, I felt disconnected here. Standing in the Peabody watching the ducks with 300 tourists, I felt like one of the few to realize how ridiculous the whole exercise was. Watching Beale street, I was struck by how familiar this place felt to my hometown in Illinois, and yet so foreign. It was like coming home from college and feeling like a stranger in your own home. And Graceland was just...Graceland.

But this evening I found my connection again, sitting in the living room of Rashina's home, where her parents were entertaining us before dinner. This family invited us into their home, provided us a meal, laughed with us, shared their history with us, and hugged us all good bye, sincerely offering an open invitation for any of us to swing by if we were in the area again.

I realized a lesson that is going to be hard to remember as we move on to Little Rock and beyond: A city may be influenced by its architecture, signage, local celebrities, personal histories, and dry rub barbecue, but it's the people who tell the real story. The Bhula's Memphis may not be the city I saw on Beale Street. But it's theirs. And I like their Memphis.

My New Reality.

I first heard about the trip last fall when Ken pitched it to his Urban Community class, and for the last ten months, this has been a distant spot on my horizon. All of the essays, the interviews, the meetings and preparation that went into this trip helped me wrap my head around it, but it never felt real.

When I was accepted into the class and a group of us got together and celebrated being chosen, we all took moments to say “Oh wow…this is happening”. But even with the acceptance letter on my screen, it didn’t feel real.

When we started to meet as a group and picked cities and pitched ideas and filled in the details, it felt like a clearer picture was forming in my head, but it didn’t feel real.

I took on an independent study for Ken as a research assistant, so the last few weeks leading up to the trip were consumed with trip logistics. Hotels, and showers, and itineraries, and marketing memos and, and, and…. Being a part of the planning process was amazing, and I loved working with the school to finish up the program, but it still felt like someone else’s trip. I had ownership over the details, I was a part of the team, but the idea of getting on a bus and driving around the country seemed so foreign, so distant from my world.

When I talked with contacts in New Orleans and they bid me farewell with “I’ll see you a week from Monday!” my heart raced to keep up with the immediacy of that casual good-bye. But it still didn’t feel real. When Emily and I realized that we’d be in Los Angeles ten days from now, we both squealed and had a moment of panic. But it still didn’t seem to be happening.

The load-in was a flurry of doors opening and closets being filled, beds being shoved with every possible necessity and drawers shoved to capacity with shoes and air freshener. We checked and double-checked our luggage. We grilled our driver (Reuben) with questions of past tours and safety tips and elaborate ways for us to be killed in a bus crash.

We never stopped moving, until at last, the drawers were full, Rueben was given permission to go, and we all sat still for a moment looking at each other. The ambient engine noises changed and suddenly the sky outside started to move.

Pierce looked at me and said, “We’re moving."

And suddenly it feels real.

Whoa.

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