Edition #140: America, at a Distance
A new, on-going mini series exploring American culture.
A Note From the Editor
I have a small assignment for you: recall your most recent relationship. Take a second to really get into it, close your eyes. Picture their face, the way their eyes looked when they laughed, something ordinary they did that quietly got on your nerves. Think about the first moment you realized things might be over, then about how much time passed between that realization and the actual end of the relationship. Think how much time has passed since you last interacted with them in person. How has your perception of the person changed from that last encounter to now?
I did the exercise myself—not just for the most recent person I dated, but for the last few people—and though the shape of my memories and recollections of these individuals is vastly varying, the common thread is how much my perception of them has changed in the time since we stopped being intimately involved. This is natural, I think, for when you’re entrenched in a significant relationship, your entire purview is colored by the experience. You might willfully ignore the obvious—this person’s beliefs are too different from your own, or they don’t want the same sort of life you do. You might be so emotionally invested in the short, intense period of time the two of you once shared that you’ve created something of a mythology to which you cling, obstructing clarity with overly romanticized notions.
Whatever the case, we humans have magnificent coping skills. We consistently tell ourselves stories to preserve the comfort of various relationships, and the reality of our situations rarely becomes clear until there’s been enough physical and emotional distance. Collectively, we are farsighted—and as I recently discovered, this isn’t just the case with our romantic relationships, but it is also true of one of our oldest, most defining relationships; the one we have with our country and cultural identity.
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Last summer, I arrived in a small, tight-knit ex-pat town in Costa Rica with the intention of staying “for a month” to learn surfing. One month extended to two, and a few months later I was packing up my apartment and moving to said town for a six-month stint—purchasing a vehicle, two surfboards, cementing my place in a previously foreign land. I’d done plenty of traveling in my life up until this point, but I hadn’t realized how different the experience of living in another country would be compared to visiting—traveling gives you a glimpse into your otherness, but it’s the Disney World version; safe and strangely authentic for what it is, but ultimately lacking depth. When I visited Japan for the first time pre-COVID, I realized only by comparison how little Americans respect the sanctity of shared public places. Eating on trains and public buses was strictly prohibited; a lesson I learned to its full extent when I removed a piece of gum from my bag and got a gentle, albeit stern look from an older woman seated next to me. The lack of trashcans around Tokyo meant everyone who was carrying a to-go cup of coffee would be holding the cup with them until they got home, where they would dispose of it in their personal trashcan. Not a single piece of garbage littered the streets, despite the absence of trashcans. This fact never ceased to amaze me.
Still, those two weeks in Japan weren’t enough time to understand my country’s culture in the context of another—I learned more about Japanese people than I’d ever known, but less about Americans. Costa Rica was different because I was actually living there; not just a visitor, but a temporary resident amongst people from all over the world. My closest friends were from Switzerland, England, Costa Rica, Argentina. I dated people from Uruguay, France, Spain, Germany—in short, my regular interactions and relationships with Americans didn’t outnumber those with people from other countries. Establishing these intimate relationships turned on a light in the back room of my brain—for the first time, I was beginning to see America from the outside in.
The first, most obvious thing that happened was learning more about the ins and outs of other cultures; how Germany offers every parent a monthly child allowance regardless of their income, how a typical lunch in the Basque country is served in three heaping courses, even if it’s just a regular Tuesday, how every day civilians hoist themselves into the bullpen at the Costa Rican rodeo, running from an irritated beast as entertainment for their fellow attendees. But the second, less obvious thing that began to happen during my time was becoming aware of my American tendencies through the lens of non-Americans—my overt friendliness and obtrusive questions, for example, or my tendency to openly discuss money.
It was the distance, the rare opportunity to not be entrenched in the never-ending doom loop of news and politicking and destruction of democracy, that gave me the space I needed to see my country, and myself, with clearer eyes. For the first time, I was properly outside of the American system in which I was born and raised. Peeking in through the dimly lit window of the house revealed corners that had been, up until this point, entirely concealed from view.
I remember having dinner with a friend from Spain. We’d pulled my table out onto the small patch of grass in my backyard so we could eat under the stars. The moon was nearly full that night, so between sips of orange wine and bites of grilled Mahi, we took turns looking through the binoculars up at the full moon. We bonded over a grief-stricken disdain for our home countries; the ways they’d let us down, the ways they’d shaped us. I described how, as a New Yorker, a part of your humanity has to die or severely wilt; otherwise, you would be consumed by the degree of poverty you witness every day. I talked about a man I’d see each evening at the West 4th Street subway station. He was old and seemingly crippled, crumpled in a human heap on the steps near the turnstiles. Every evening I would see him and I would think of what I might be able to do—I know I couldn’t have been the only person wondering this—and still, we would all just tromp up the stairs past him.
“You don’t have a culture of care in America,” my friend said, and how apparent that fact became. From our healthcare being contingent upon either employment or poverty to the lack of social services to the dehumanization of the homeless population, care isn’t built into American culture as it currently stands. Interestingly, if you do a quick Google search about American culture, you’ll find a handful of articles and PDFs preparing people, mostly potential international students, for adapting to life in the US. One of the major tenants described in such literature is the importance of individualism and independence; Americans deeply believe in their own inherent potential—to start a business, to “pull themselves up by thier bootstraps,” to rise above their station. Such belief says with hard work and grit, you can do anything—and, it’s safe to assume it is this belief that concurrently implies that the government shouldn’t have to do it for you. If the opportunity is there and you try hard enough, the opportunity is yours. Such naive, simplistic thinking is finally starting to be outed for the folklore it is as many non-rich Americans discover the increasing impossibility of true upward mobility, but it is that fundamental American myth that has created the cultural care void we see now.
Anthropologist Christina De Rossi said, “Culture encompasses religion, food, what we wear, how we wear it, our language, marriage, music, what we believe is right or wrong, how we sit at the table, how we greet visitors, how we behave with loved ones, and a million other things." In short, culture is an accumulation of a group’s values reflected in various touchpoints—and in America, our culture is one defined by consumerism. I remember when a Swiss friend of mine described her first encounter with an American grocery store. It was a Super Walmart in Northern California and she couldn’t believe it—the sheer amount of stuff. Every item, from pretzels to sugar to olives, offered a myriad of options and brands. You could get anything you wanted; there was no such thing as seasonality or scarcity. American grocery stores seem to say: if you have the money for it, you deserve it (“it” being unripe strawberries in the dead of winter, for example).
If you do have the money for it, you will be able to secure it in America. In the vacuum that has formed with the dwindling importance of religion, community, and elders playing an important role in society, consumerism has swept in to fill the void—it is our driving force and our God. Tourists from around the globe arrive with empty suitcases that they can fill with goods acquired from outlet malls. Advertisement is everywhere; on our phones, on our streets, in our inboxes, on our news feeds. On top of that, our politicians are incentivized by private companies, so weak consumer protection laws create a setting in which American life is one, big, algorithmic push to buy more stuff. And buy more stuff, we do—big houses to fill with stuff, big cars, big Amazon orders, big piles of presents on Christmas. We love stuff, even if we throw a lot of it away after a few uses because it’s junky stuff.
And Americans are busy—to-go meals, to-go coffees, and the idea of being always on the run is another facet of life you’ll find mentioned often in those pieces of literature intended to prepare non-Americans for assimilation into the country. Busyness is required in a society that indoctrinates the value of productivity above all else; we don’t even realize how busy we are, how fast we’re moving. I would argue that requiring people to move so fast and creating a culture that has made stillness synonymous with laziness is the perfect recipe for chaos—it is impossible to pause, to be still, because there is no time. We’ve got jobs to do, side hustles to fabricate, money to make, a Google calendar filled with obligations and appointments. Whether we actually enjoy the cutthroat pace of this life is irrelevant; whether we identify with these values isn’t meant to be inspected.
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As I was doing research for this essay, I came across. few interesting tidbits of information I hadn’t known before. America has no official designated language, a fun fact I cannot wait to drop in various conversations. Also, some political scientists argue that America is the only global superpower at present because of the cumulative power of its economy, military capabilities, and demographics. Both facts were shocking to me, but especially the second. How is it possible that my country—so powerful, so rich and influential—could be in such a state of disarray? This isn’t just referring to the obvious political turmoil, but to the general sense of defeat I’ve found while talking to many people my age in recent years. There is a sense that America is collapsing and that perhaps we should have an escape route planned. If our rights are being stripped away and there is no social safety net for us, if we’ll never be able to afford to purchase homes, if our entire lives feel like a soulless, disconnected rinse and repeat just to survive, what’s the point?
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There is always hope for change, but the only way to change is to acknowledge where you are and where you’ve been. That is why this week is going to be the start of a short, ongoing series in which I attempt to gain a clearer understanding of American culture. Why is it that America is the richest country in the world with some of the worst social services? Are our inflated US salaries really worth as much as we think they are, given the rising costs of living? How much money are people willing to pay in order to foster human connection, and is our willingness to pay for such a thing a reflection of our core issues? These are some of the questions I’ve been asking myself, which I’m going to attempt to delve into in the coming weeks. I can confidently say I will not unearth all the answers to such complex issues, but I do hope to come out of this with a clearer understanding of how we got here and most importantly, how we might move forward. I want to believe in America again, to see her potential and to feel invested in her future. This is my attempt to foster such a spirit.
I hope you’ll read along each week, whether you’re an American or not, and I hope you’ll engage with this content in the comments or via email. I want to hear from as many of you as possible—refute what I’m saying or agree with it, share your experience pressing up against these systems, or your experiences living in other countries. I want to hear about the social services your country provides, your perception of America from the inside or from the outside, and your thoughts on how things in the US might be re-structured to work better for regular people.
I’m opening up the full editions for all subscribers for content from this series: America, at a Distance. I haven’t figured out a perfect plan for this yet, but I’m guessing it’ll be 3-4 essays, perhaps not consecutively published, about various aforementioned topics. Godspeed, kitty cats!
Cheers, my dears, and as always, thanks for reading. I’m spending the weekend in a cozy cabin in upstate New York with a handful of my dearest friends for our first book club retreat. We’ll be doing lots of reading, chatting, eating, and sitting (in a hot tub). I hope you have a wonderful weekend! Go get some sunshine on your face and read a book. I’m almost done with this one and it’s been impossible to put down.
Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming
What Happened to America? We Asked 12 People in Their 70s and 80s. This one felt too fitting to leave out today. I love an interactive article, especially one with illustrations, and the tone of this piece is both enlightening and hopeful. A focus group asking elderly Americans what life is like at their age and how they think the country is shaping up for the future—very cute and interesting.
Molly’s Free Ideas. I forgot how much I loved Molly Young’s weird and wonderful personality (I haven’t met her, only read her work) since being off social media. This silly list of actually great ideas—I especially liked the email client that delivers email once per day and Le Treasure Shack—is from her newsletter, which doesn’t actually get deployed into anyone’s inbox but works like a blog you have to remember to refresh to read its new posts.
The Scariest Part of a Relationship. Another interesting thing I discovered whilst living in Costa Rica is the difference between how people from various countries—namely, Europe—move from the murky territory of getting to know each other to a committed relationship. Such a process seems to be far less formal than in America, where a conversation about designating something “official” so required. This wonderful piece talks about why that time before calling a relationship a relationship is so uncomfortable and strange.
Perhaps You Should… Delve into a Poetry Collection
If you‘re already convinced of the beautiful, slowing-down power of poetry, then ordering this debut chapbook should be a no-brainer. And if you aren’t a poetry fan, I feel confident this one might change your mind. A stunning debut collection of works about family, legacy, and culture—and also, a moving meditation on life in America as a child of Chinese immigrants. If you live in NYC, you can also attend a poetry reading and hear some works from the collection aloud—which I did last week and would highly recommend.
**Bonus Content** (My Upstate Fantasy Life)
Part of my personal American mythology, like any good creative Millennial New York City dweller, is living a quaint, quiet life upstate. You’ll understand this seamlessly if you live in NYC but if you don’t, let me paint the picture for you—all of us living here know we’ll ostensibly never be able to afford to buy a place. Also, whenever we periodically leave the city, we wonder what the fuck we’re doing schlepping an armful of groceries up five flights of stairs. In short, we all fantasize about the upstate dream —and this satirical essay articulating the fantasy with obscenely accurate detail had me hyena cackling aloud on the subway.
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“I love America more than any other country in the world, and exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.”
-Notes of a Native Son by James Baldwin
This newsletter is best served with a side of conversation, so drop your opinions, reflections, and thoughts in the comments below and let’s get to talking.
Or, share the most thought-provoking piece from today’s edition with someone you love, then call them up to discuss, debate, and percolate. As a wise woman once said, “Great minds discuss ideas.