It Occurs To Me That I Am America

Let the Alamo burn. Let’s walk away.

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“It occurs to me that I am America.” Allen Ginsberg wrote that. He was probably stoned out of his mind at the time—or worse. Or better, depending on your point of view. Who knows what he meant? This was stuck in the middle of a bunch of other seemingly random lines that only a person with direct access to their subconscious could write down. I pick the fruit I like and leave the rest of the tree alone sometimes. That’s allowed. The author doesn’t make the meaning, the reader does. Allen’s intentions aren’t important. The output matters only because something came of it and now it’s there. It’s the input and processing that are the significant parts of the equation. That’s the only part of the operation where you might come up with some results.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about that line. Because it has occurred to me that I am America. Whatever is happening is my fault. Personally. Aggressively. Shamefully. Disappointingly. I didn’t work hard enough to earn what I thought would be best. I never have. I didn’t try hard enough. I didn’t do enough to find out how to do enough. The strong urge to make a difference is worthless, left only as an urge. I took ten minutes and did the very least I could possibly do. I want so badly to blame someone. Anyone. But we all exist partly inside our own sphere, and when you toss out blame, it hits the curved wall and gravity eventually brings it back to roll around at your feet, waiting to be thrown again. It’s best to just leave it there, accept it, and be sorry. I am sorry.

I went through a period back in 2006 or 2007 where I was obsessed with my relationship with America. I don’t know how or why, but this obsession whittled down to a point that eventually stuck itself into the story of the Alamo, which I decided, when you boil away everything else, is a story of testosterone. And if you ask me, testosterone is the strongest and most toxic poison known to humankind. I know a little about that. Were Bowie (not that Bowie), Travis, and Crockett heroes? Or were they meatheads? If you define ‘hero’ as being brave and sacrificing everything, then of course they were heroes. But hold on. Was their cause noble? Were they defending their land, or were they trying to take someone else’s? There is a certain meat-headedness to trampling through someone else’s territory for reasons that may or may not have had to do with land expansion and slavery. (The reasons had to do with land expansion and slavery. Meatheads, all of them. Sorry Texans. Let the Alamo burn.) I wrote a long, meandering song about this. My thought at the time was that it’s probably important to know what’s worth dying for, and what isn’t. You only get to die once.

You’ll die in your sleep if you sleep all the time. I could give up the things that draw permanent lines. Let the Alamo burn. We steep in decay. Let the Alamo burn. Let’s walk away.

At the time, I thought a lot about the randomness of being born in one country and not another—and how becoming patriotic about a random event like that is a strange thing. It’s like family. You love and cherish your family because randomly or not—they’re your family. You listen to a song enough times, and you can’t help but fall in love with it. (There are exceptions.) We become attached to what we’re used to if it’s not terrible. We will defend and protect what we’ve become used to if it’s not terrible. I also thought a lot about how funny borders are. They’re like money. They only exist because we all agree they exist. The point is, I wandered around in all of this and came to no conclusions other than to realize that my relationship with my country interests me and was worth spending some time thinking about. I’m thinking about it again.

I used to love to provoke meatheads. I should offer my definition of meathead after using the term so much, but I’m not going to. I’m not sure why I ever thought these provocations were a good idea, because it never once ended well for me. But there was a time when I would find myself compelled to piss someone off to the point where they would finally resort to physical violence against me. This only occurred when I came across the type of person that I felt really needed to be aggravated by me. I would never start the violence myself. That would have been foolhardy. But there is something about my personality that can push people over the edge when I use it correctly/incorrectly. This natural talent is especially effective on meatheads.

These experiences taught me that I have plenty of violence just below the surface that can be easily triggered and tapped if I feel threatened or wronged, or if my family is threatened or wronged, or if a meathead who was saying stupid shit loudly becomes incensed by my blowing him a tender kiss in a wildly successful attempt to showcase his insecurity in front of his meathead friends resulting in him punching me in the face repeatedly until the police came. (Not that any of this actually happened.) I’m sure we can all access our violence if the situation demands it. I suppose I’m a pacifist up to a point. But if someone were undeniably in the wrong, I could certainly get over the silly pacifism thing right quick. In that same way, if there were a real and valid threat to America, my country, if a force stepped on our shores bent on destroying our way of life, I’m sure I could pick up a small, easy-to-use, liberal-friendly weapon of some sort, aim it at an aggressor’s face, and pull the trigger. I could pull the trigger as a defender, but I would not pull the trigger as an aggressor. That distinction seems important. While part of me thinks about the randomness of being born in one country and not another, and how being asked to pledge allegiance rubs me the wrong way (you’re not the boss of me) even though I actually feel some sort of allegiance, while borders seem stupid even as I’m glad to be surrounded by the ones that outline America—

Jesus - what am I even talking about here? I don’t know. I’m trying to express how I’m feeling, and it’s not working out. Or maybe I’m feeling confused and jumbled and at sea—which I may be expressing perfectly. With all the contradictions, most of which remain unlisted here, I do have a profound gratitude to America for occasionally meeting its incredible potential and for allowing me to hang out here to have the life I’ve had. There can be no doubt that this country is a fascinating idea. Oh man, those times America has met its potential! I’d tell you one of the favorite American moments of my lifetime, but you’ll call me a libtard. Eh, there are worse things to be called. It was when Obama announced the Supreme Court decision affirming that same-sex marriage was a constitutional right. I hope that felt like me blowing you a kiss, you insecure meathead. What a moment that was. It felt like the line graph of America was heading in the right direction. That graph has had some seriously flat periods and some scary dips, but overall and over time—it has always climbed, however slowly. The fact of that climb is all I need to love this country. All said, when it comes down to it, I would be honored and compelled to defend America. Depending on the specifics, that might be something worth dying for.

Except. What if America doesn’t mean what I thought it meant? What if the graph can’t endlessly climb like I’ve come to believe? What if a dip becomes a downward trajectory that doesn’t stop? What do we do when a thing made of granite turns out to be made of sand? What if a definition changed without us knowing? What if the entire dictionary has changed, and we flip through it, not recognizing anything at all? If the ship you’ve been sailing on turns into a monster you don’t recognize, do you defend it or jump? Do you start bailing and try to repair it before it goes down? Or do you try to save yourself and those that you love while there’s still a bit of air to breathe? If you wear a jacket that suddenly grows razors, do you pull it snugly around you, or do you take it off as soon as you can?

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My question is, what do I owe a place that might no longer be that place? Am I obliged to try to help put it back the way it was, or the way it could be? Or if a place doesn’t want to be the place I want it to be, should we just shake hands and call it a day and wish each other well? I mean, the majority rules, right? The people have spoken? Am I obligated to endure the embarrassment and humiliation if what the people have spoken is a foul gibberish from a new senseless dictionary that I have no interest in translating or being a part of?

My wife pointed out this morning that some people need to be breathing water before they realize the risk of drowning. (Her line wasn’t as poetic as that, but it was pretty good.) I believe that’s just as true as it is regrettable. That fact has the potential to screw us good—and permanently. If people want to drown, that is their right, I suppose. Have at it. Unfortunately, like it or not—we’re all tethered to one another, and the anchor has serious weight and frightening momentum.

Yes, you’re right. It’s time. Go ahead and say it. Pull it out of your quiver of clichés.

Love it or leave it.

Yes, I know, honey. I know. Bless your heart. I can do neither, or both, or any combination that suits me. Remember the Alamo!

All I know for sure is what approximately 1/340,111,000th of America is feeling right now. It occurs to me that I am America. And at this moment in time, I am uncomfortable with that. I look forward to actionable options. Until then—the plum blossoms are falling… hold on.