On July 4th this year, I made up a random list of what I treasure about the United States of America, my beautiful adopted motherland. Nobody noticed the list that much — there’s a lot happening in the world — but I did like some of the responses.
For example, I talked about the artistry of Bob Dylan, Muddy Waters, and Beyonce, three artists who have shaped my understanding of this country profoundly, so immediately someone chimed in and wondered if I’d heard of Tracy Chapman (reader, I have, it was an off-the-cuff list, OK?). Out of the three, I’ve only seen Bob in concert, and that was back when he was fresh off the Wonder Boys soundtrack and had caught a second wind.
The concert is seared into my memories as one of my most spiritual and joyful experiences. It was as if I, an adoptee of this country, briefly held its heart in my teenage hand.
I also mentioned that Americans are the best lovers, which naturally pissed some people off. Sex is subjective, although having a lover is not just about the sex. Maybe it’s the way he holds the door for you too. Or the way he teaches you a country dance. Finding myself unexpectedly single in this country some years ago inspired me to explore what American men in particular had to offer, and this quest was a dizzying kaleidoscope. One day, maybe, I’ll write a book about it — just so I can piss off more people.
Then there’s the fact that I talked about how America’s political discourse is very youthful. Naturally some of my friends were surprised about that — most of the people in power here are quite older than we are. It’s not what I was talking about, though. I was trying to be conscious of the fact that this is a young country. It’s tempestuous in the way of a young country. The discourse here is definitely less mature, but also more full of possibility.
Centuries have a way of pressing down on you. That’s not just metaphor talking, there is a fair amount of scientific evidence that the traumas of the people who came before you can very well affect you on a genetic level. Maybe this is why so many people seek out the United States. As a nation, it’s so temptingly new.
Every year, as I celebrate my adopted motherland, I must clarify to people that I do not think of it as a utopia. I know the price of utopian thinking. I know how power can turn to cruelty. But I also think that my fellow Americans need naturalized citizens like me to occasionally remind them of the broad and deep possibilities of this country. It will never be an ideal. An ideal, however, is not the point.
One of the albums I keep replaying during this hot and dangerous summer is Ethel Cain’s Preacher’s Daughter. It’s a concept album by a gorgeous trans woman, and it centers the peculiarities of American darkness in a way that is as deftly and tonally beautiful as the best works of David Lynch.
It reminds me of the dreams I had while growing up in my own version of the American South, of weaving roses and rattlesnakes into my hair and stepping out onto a lonesome highway at night.
Like me, Ethel Cain was raised with religion, and like me, she questions the purpose of patriotism. She describes her famous single, American Teenager, as “fake pop” and “anti-war” and “anti-patriotism,” and honestly, that’s the great thing about this country that I have been able to understand because I have lived in many other countries — the fact that we are allowed to deconstruct our own nation in surprising, downright unholy and seductive ways. We are ultimately able to remake ourselves here.
I don’t know what happens next, but I do know that I am grateful for the shimmering fluidity of this moment. I’m grateful to be an American.
Image: Kyle Glenn