Life Lessons in Travel Part 5: What I Learned in America
Lynne Fukuda
Instructor of Anthropology
Central Texas College
E-mail: lfukuda@hawaii.edu
My life lessons in America will never be finished; they shall continue for the rest of my life. Like these lessons that are ever expanding and ever changing, so is the land of America--the land of dreams. I am fortunate, however, to have visited foreign lands so that I am able to compare and contrast my views of my own country and of my own people with my views of these other lands.
Much of my knowledge of the cultures of America, the land of the free, comes from the coasts, from New York, D.C., Virginia, Florida, and then, California and the neighboring state of Nevada, and the last frontier, Alaska. I cannot attest to any deep knowledge of the other states, shamefully, because I have never found the time or the opportunity to visit them. My home, being in Hawaii, the middle of the Pacific Ocean, made the other 48 states all too distant and unreachable. The states that I have visited on the mainland are only a part of my valued memories simply because they were the crossroads to my adventures in Europe, Latin America, and beyond.
However shallow and brief these visits to the states may have been, they have nevertheless allowed me to take in the American culture with gusto. I am in love with the East coast, the places of lovely parks and polite people, of beautiful historic buildings, and small shops that remind me of Europe. The temperate forest, too, calls to me, whispering of the loveliness of spring and fall as well as the summer. The breathtaking winters, too, echo in the distance, telling me of the joys of such climates. In Florida, swaying with the Latino beat, I am in paradise, remembering the days I spent in beloved Puerto Rico.
The contrast of the East and West coasts of the mainland, too, imprinted on my young mind the difference of cultures. The traditional East versus the ever expanding, dynamic West opened my eyes up to the great size of my country. The Western states, especially those on the coast, reminded me of the greatness and the vastness of our nation. It also reminded me that it was a bit harder to survive in the West, as it was not as settled as the East. For a tender-footed child from an island, having only spent years in Europe, the American West indeed seemed like the Wild West.
In my anthropology courses I always begin with an icebreaker, handing out pieces of American culture cut out from magazines such as Good Housekeeping and Ladies Home Journal pasted on pieces of cardboard and ask my students to describe what American culture means to them and what the cut-outs mean to them. Answers such as fast food, fast-paced living, mobility, freedom, love for country, diversity of cultures, Christian religion, and many other components emerge.
What is American culture to us all? I still ponder it, knowing that our culture seems to have no set rules, no set boundaries, and sometimes no set order. It is ever changing, ever growing, and ever adapting. I see our American culture change every decade, every year, every day. I see the infiltration of new ideas, new styles, new ways of thinking and living. I rejoice that instead of being in stagnation our country strives to improve itself, little by little in the ways that it deals with its people, its size, its problems, and its diplomacy.
Watching the sad news broadcast around the world, where nations point fingers at our once proud nation and blame us for everything from globalization, racism, war, poverty, environmental destruction, I want to speak out and let others know that instead of blaming us they must give us credit for trying our best to resolve these problems and trying to improve our way of life.
I do, however, still hear good things about America as I travel around the world. My admiring foreign friends always say, “America is so large and so free. There are opportunities available to all. It is a place where one can indeed pursue happiness.”
Others also agree. “You have cars, large houses, large tracts of land, and many jobs. You live in a high standard of living and a high quality in health.”
Having grown up partially in post-war Europe and post-war Asia, when poverty was rampant, I understand what they are saying. We take for granted that we have running hot water, electricity and electrical appliances at our beck and call. We have sanitation so that sewage, drinking water, and our trash are regulated scientifically and reliably. Our health care prevents us from being exposed to diseases that often killed children in the past. And we are able to attend school for free, apply for jobs without restrictions, and are able to live with the privacy and satisfaction of people considered rich in less developed countries.
In the post-war world of Europe and Asia, however, food was often not refrigerated in most households. It was bought fresh daily and eaten as fast as possible to avoid spoilage. Running hot water was a luxury not available for many apartment dwellers. Running water and even a toilet or bathtub in the apartment too was considered a luxury. Clean ice for drinks did not exist and even sweets were a rare commodity. Tuberculosis, childhood diseases, fevers, and water-borne disease threatened lives. Only those with some money could afford to send their children to school, and many skipped their education in order to work to support their families.
When I am abroad, my hypochondriac fears emerge. I have been coddled and protected from things that were ordinary in a common person’s existence in a poor nation. I avoid eating certain food, drinking untreated water, or going near sources of water, certain that I will come down with the much feared diseases of cholera, dysentery, typhoid, and parasitic diseases. I hold my breath in areas with crowds, fearing airborne diseases of meningitis, SARS, avian flu, and tuberculosis. I encase myself in long-sleeved blouses and long pants or long skirts and avoid human contact, ever fearful of skin-diseases and mosquito-borne diseases.
What sort of life would I have if it were like so many others in underdeveloped foreign countries, having to boil everything I drink and to cook thoroughly what I eat? Watching others fall ill and die before my very eyes, the victims of bad sanitation, poverty, malnutrition, and bad governmental policies?
I cannot imagine my life without learning--seeing young girls in poor countries who are sent out into the fields, factories, sweatshops, and to families to work out their young lives, old before their age and worn by the toil of having unhappy lives and too many children. The magic of attending a school in my school clothes, the joy of carrying my books to and from school, the fun of socializing with my school friends, and the pleasures of teaching and learning at a college and university would be non-existent and remain a distant dream, if anything at all.
As a female in an underdeveloped country, I would have been married-off young. My husband and his family would have controlled every aspect of my life. My health would have been worn by the toil of labor and by childbearing as well. In spite of the possible joys of marriage and motherhood, I would have no other choice in life. But in America, as a female I would be able to attend a school, graduate and attend college. I would also have the choice of a career or motherhood, remaining at home, if desired, to become a stay-at-home mom.
It is in America that such dreams are possible--the domestic dreams of marriage and motherhood, and the professional dreams of a much larger future as a student and as a career woman. I am blessed by such dreams and continue to live them daily, the promise of having work that I will always love and being respected for the work that I do.
I am still very frugal and guilt-ridden, feeling too luxurious and wasteful in my everyday life in the U.S., knowing how it was in the past in Europe and in Asia and still is in so many developing countries. I recycle and eat wisely and sparingly, not wishing to kill off animals unnecessarily or to damage the environment due to my activities. Although I own a car, I use it sparingly, scheduling my driving so that I use it at a minimum and take on a passenger or two, a friend or family member who needs a ride. When I am alone at home I light my space with one fluorescent light bulb, I use a laptop for a limited amount of time, and I watch a small, black-and-white TV or listen to a transistor radio for entertainment. In the summers, when the heat is unbearable, I break down and use a fan. In my spare time, I devour books from bookshops, used bookstores, the library, and friends. I know that if I lived in another country I may have been deprived of a proper education and even deprived of the opportunity to have such books, such learning. And if I had lived in a restrictive country, I would not have been able to read such books at all.
It is not only the physical luxuries that Americans have each day but the luxuries of self-expression. I worry presently, however, that there is a probe in my home or my phone has been tapped. I wonder if the government is listening to my conversations or infiltrating my personal e-mails. And yet I know that I am still safe from censorship, a luxury not available in some lands. Followed constantly as a tourist in communist countries and having stilted conversations with the locals in those countries I am aware of the lack of freedom regular citizens experience when living in lands with very little personal freedom.
When my mother and I traveled to communist countries, now democratized and free, we were shadowed by government agents who knew where we were at every turn. Our destinations were charted carefully and followed by our guide. Our sleeping hours, our activities in the hotel, and outside too, were monitored. Shadows followed us as we walked about the towns, making certain that we did not stray from our paths as tourists, and somehow, ironically, ensuring our safety as well.
“Mum, I see those men following us. Suppose they are muggers,” I would say.
My mum would not look back but would smile slightly and say, “We are much safer with them on our trail. They are simply doing their jobs, monitoring our behavior.”
I would then nod, saying a silent thank you to the shadows that ensured our safety and followed our meandering trail through the town, shops, and eateries, and escorted our way back to the hotel.
As an American traveler, I do not have to ask permission to leave the United States to travel abroad. I do not have to be questioned about the motive for my travels. No one asks to see my photographs or ask about my travel destinations. Likewise, as an American citizen I am free to vote, choosing politicians that I favor. I speak openly about injustices, criticize government policy and expect to be heard. I have marched for peace, marched to support our troops, and taken part in candlelight vigils in remembrance of injustices. I belong to a group that works for social justice and do not fear that I will be captured and tortured until my lifeblood drains out of me as well as my spirit. I do not fear that men in black will appear at my door in the middle of the night to take me from my home and put me in jail or dose me with psychiatric drugs and lock me up in an insane asylum.
When I travel throughout the United States, I am aware of this freedom. I seek out my destination, unafraid of obstacles and only aware of possible muggers or scam artists. I find clean food at fast-food or other restaurants and freely drink the water without fear of contracting cholera or dysentery. I am understood and treated with respect as a fellow American.
“What state are you from?” a local might ask.
“Do you have Hawaiian dollars where you live? Do you dance the hula and live in a grass shack on the beach?” another might ask.
“Do you speak Hawaiian, too, in addition to English,” someone might ask curiously.
I smile and enlighten them on the realities of the 50th state, Hawaii, which is perhaps more cosmopolitan than some of the Western states.
“I do dance the hula, and my grandparents did live in a shack on a plantation near the beach, and they did have a house near a beach. I only studied Hawaiian language briefly since it is not an official language and was not spoken for a while,” I answer, smiling at my admiring fellow citizens.
I feel like an ambassador of a small nation, of a secret kingdom in the Pacific. With my lightly tanned skin and dark hair I am thought of as a Hawaiian. “We are also American,” I correct them. “We are all American citizens and fly the American flag.”
It is funny how Hawaii has never officially become the 50th state to some and remains simply a territory of the United States. For others, it is a state populated by foreigners who speak strange languages and eat strange food and practice strange customs. And for some there is a king still living and reigning from the Iolani palace. For many, the image of Jack Lord in “Hawaii Five-O” remains deeply ingrained in their minds, standing on the highest building, the Ilikai Hotel, which is no longer the highest building in our state.
I smiled inwardly, hearing the quaint remarks about Hawaii. The image that the tourist bureau sends out as well as the media only reinforces the myths about our beloved islands. I am perturbed by this, and yet, happy about this. Even in my mind, the denial of the drastic changes brought on by development, statehood, militarization, and the adoption of American ways in Hawaii remains.
I am glad, then, to discover that in my own home state the images of fellow Americans on the United States mainland brings back to us the goodness of Hawaii, of what we all once loved and have lost. Deserted beaches, smiling hula girls, the crystal clear surf are not as commonly found. Fragrant flowers and the greenery of the islands are only available outside of Honolulu. In my journeys in my own state of Hawaii I have discovered that dreams, myths, and images of paradise, of a place where there is an escape from reality, and a place in the hearts of those who seek the solitude and beauty of an isolated place truly exists.
Like the nation it is a part of, Hawaii is also the land of dreams, but of dreams that are more like fantasy. Hollywood celebrities, royalty, the dreadfully rich and reclusive all come to Hawaii to escape from their worlds into another world that is a world of make-believe. While in Hawaii, even with the harsh realities of inflated cost of living, inflated prices, and overcrowding and horrendous traffic, they are able to escape from their own horrors and chaotic lives to rest for a while, to recharge and to refresh before starting out once again.
As strange as the myths of Hawaii seem to locals, the myths that the Hawaiian locals have of the mainland states, swearing that Indians (not those of India) dressed in skins and riding horses are still running about and chasing cowboys (who live with 19th century technology), are even stranger. Many believe that there are places on the mainland where people live in the Wild West with guns and horses.
I have yet to find the Wild West, although traveling in wide-open spaces, visiting the deserts and national parks, and meeting free-spirited Americans give me a whiff of what must have been once the Wild West. The cowboys of old may not be riding horses. Instead, they might be traveling throughout the west on their Harley-Davidson. Nomadic Native Americans and non-Natives, too, are not in covered wagons but are traveling in trailers instead. A truck stop, a small town on Route 66, or a gas station is reminders of the mobile nature of the Americans, who are comfortable in a permanent home of brick and stone as well as on the road in their cars and in their SUVs.
For myself, visiting the other states is a breath of fresh air. After a while, driving around and around a small island becomes very tiresome. My journeys West, to California and beyond, crossing the vast Pacific Ocean on a five hour flight at minimum and an eleven hour flight at maximum brings to mind the long, arduous journeys that Americans took to get to their destinations. Travel for Americans is considered second nature. That too is a trait that is very American. Although not considered international travelers like the Europeans, the Americans cover vast tracts of land, feeling at home, because their nation indeed is very large and varied, travel is part of their daily life.
Some commute for long distances to and from work, a hundred miles each way, which would be unthinkable for many in Europe and other foreign countries. A hundred miles travel would mean traveling through many countries or across an ocean. Driving oneself, also an unthinkable act for many, for such great distances that would have been covered by train, bus, or caravan, is an ordinary occurrence for Americans.
I learned from the travelers, heading out West or East, that no distance is too great for an American. One simply had to belong to AAA, have a collection of maps, a fellow navigator, a compass, and now a GPS to head to one’s destination. Because there are so many places familiar to all Americans due to the media and to the homogenizing effects of malls and the shops and eateries that abound in such places, no American may feel afraid of having culture shock when traveling in the 48 contiguous states.
When one is low on gasoline, there is a familiar gas station that takes gas cards. When one is low on supplies, there is a reliable Rite Aid, Walgreen’s, Wal-Mart, or K-Mart. When hunger attacks, there is a McDonalds, Burger King, Kentucky Fried Chicken, or a familiar diner. Service is reliable and similar across the states. Supplies are abundant and many stocks are very similar.
When I land on the mainland, however, being from an island state, I do feel the initial culture shock. Being used to no daylight savings time and then having to endure the time change, having crossed over many times zones, I am at once a zombie and a freak. The air, too, seems different, lacking the humidity that I am accustomed to. The food smells and looks different, at times, almost generic like the foods pictured in magazines and television ads. They are familiar and yet taste unfamiliar.
I look around and find that my clothing, behavior, and movements are different from those around me. Equipped with all the clothes, “mainland clothes”, which can vary from season to season but always includes sturdy walking shoes that replace our flimsy sandals and flip-flops, a hat or a cap, a scarf, a good jacket and pants, and sometimes a sweatshirt or sweater, we unpack, protecting ourselves from the onslaught of environmental differences. Harsh climates of hot and cold often bring out the wimpness in our island hearts.
Yet, finally off the plane in New York City or in Los Angeles, I feel the large city beckon to me. Entertainment, energy, the dynamics of a metropolis injects new life into my tired soul. Island life slows everything to a crawl. Timelessness, relaxation, and forgetfulness create a chaotic mess that is like someone’s uncleaned room at times. But once in a vibrant city, creative juices flow, hurriedness, speed, and new ideas spring into my mind. Driving around or traveling through the other states, I begin to feel myself an outsider, and yet, still very American. I appreciate and notice the things I did not before.
The air, devoid of humidity, seems so crisp, bringing out lightness to my step. I can walk about briskly without breaking out in a sweat. I can run about, if not in mid-summer, without feeling exhausted and brain-dead. The seasons also tantalize my senses. If in spring, the spring blossoms brings out an euphoria in my heart, lifting me up as the flowers rise upward towards the sun. If in fall, the vibrant colors of the leaves, melancholy and yet festive, brings out the romantic part of myself. I compose poems as an ode to the falling leaves. The snowflakes in winter bring out thankfulness, the coldness, making me seek refuge in a warm restaurant or café, seeking the company of other humans, huddling in the heated rooms. The summers, too, no matter how hot and uncomfortable, rising to 109 degrees, unthinkable in Hawaii, which never rises above the high 90s, are also an inspiration. The heat, combined with the good nature of the mainlanders, brings out much admiration for a people who can endure all.
Unlike the coddled Europeans who lived in a land cool and gentle, kind and rich, although poor in natural resources, America was indeed a wild land of extremes. Yet very much like the ancestors of Americans who came from different areas of the world to start a new and different life in the New World, the Americans of present day also are self-reliant, fiercely independent, resourceful, fearless, pioneering, and adventurous. Those from highly developed places and from small, protected islands, including the people of the mainland--especially those of the Wild West--will always have my admiration. Traveling hundreds and even thousands of miles in the quest of a better life, having faith that life in another state that seems so distant and different that it almost seems like another country, and settle anywhere comfortable and with versatility, Americans, the mobile people who can live out of their cars and suitcases, are the true travelers of the world.
I am inspired continually by my visits to this vast, foreign land that we call the mainland United States. After all, to an island maiden from the Pacific, the mainland is a very different place with a different culture. I have learned much from my travels away from my home state and to the mainland, always positively inspired. Why not fly the American flag for months in front of my home to celebrate the birth of our nation? Why not celebrate the passing of seasons with wooden ornaments in the front yard, and small festivities in the park? I am inspired to eat wholesome American foods: pot-roast, roast beef, sausages, fried chicken, soups, and large sandwiches. I am fond of good cheese and ham. I am in love with squashes, pies, cakes, cookies, candies, and many goodies never as tasty in Hawaii. In metropolitan areas there are also ethnic eateries that entice every gourmet. I try different foods, sometimes not available in Hawaii. Armenian food, Jewish delis, African specialties, and delicious Hispanic foods fill my menu.
I marvel at the prices, knowing that even the equivalent price in Hawaii would bring a modest serving but brings a more than substantial serving on the mainland. Giant burgers, large and thick sandwiches that are straight out of Blondie’s comic strips (aka Dagwood), tangy tomato sauce on meatballs served with spaghetti noodles, large bowls of banana splits, thick and rich milk shakes, and thick fries, dance before my eyes. I sigh with the luxury of having too much to eat.
The cities display their large and tall buildings, boasting of long elevator rides. It is almost like climbing from ground to sky from a teleporter into an airplane. Images of King Kong swinging from skyscrapers fill my mind. It is not only the man-made wonders but natural wonders also fill my heart with fascination. As an island person, having very limited amounts of land, I marvel at the long, straight, and flat roads that stretch out into infinity on the desert lands of California. The vast, open areas beyond cities in the East coast make me happy that development and modern civilization has not destroyed the natural forest areas. A drive on the coast of California brings home the realization that the ocean is much larger than it seems when viewed from an island. The virgin lands of Alaska promise me that many natural areas in America will be safe for generations to come.
It is my travels through America, however, meeting the many people of my nation that fill me with immense pride. I meet hard-working European-Americans who value a Christian way of life. I see decent families struggling to better themselves in African-American communities and see smiling Hispanic people who are the new immigrants, who are trying to adapt their culture with American culture and have spiced up our everyday life with their laughter, dance, food, and gusto for living. I meet Asian Americans who have found the American dream, successful and proud. I see Native Americans struggling for equality and patiently waiting for their time in the limelight.
I am proud of the country that has in only a matter of a century, or in even less time, made the effort to right the wrongs, to adapt to the demands of a country that is diverse in culture and background, in ethnicity, and in ideas. Many people I meet are genuinely kind, offering me a hand to help me on my journey. Others are curious and happy to meet one of the people of the land of paradise, Hawaii, their lifelong dream. I wish them well, hoping that when they do arrive on Hawaii’s shores they will be welcomed and experience the joys of our paradise as I have experienced joys in their lands.
At times, appearing different, as an Asian American, mixed with European-Japanese people, I am treated differently, almost like a foreign visitor from a far-off land. And yet I know that Hawaii’s people are puzzling to many who do not consider Hawaii to be America. As I travel, I reflect on what it is to be American. I know that being isolated from world-affairs until recent times, having little experience with, little travel from and little influx of mainlanders to Hawaii until the recent decades, my friends and neighbors of Hawaii have not been as American as the rest of America.
With the state of the Iraqi War-Conflict, however, patriotism has been on the rise, and many have become more loyal to the cause. We pray for our brothers and sisters who are deployed and are proud to be Americans. There are more American flags flying near our buildings, and we are more aware of our fellow countrymen and countrywomen.
I dream of the greatness of our nation as I recall my travels through Alaska, the gem, the jewel, and the virgin lands that are our greatest treasures. The idea of drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge fills me with anger and bitter tears. When I visited Anchorage almost yearly in the 1980s and 1990s I saw a place that was a small-town style of city, with the fresh, wind blowing from the millions of year-old glaciers. In a gentle valley that was graced by a port, Anchorage, Alaska, was a place where people gathered. I wandered through its small and pristine streets, occasionally accosted by drunken but friendly people. I dined on the abundant salmon that was said to turn the streams and rivers crimson in their quest to reach their birth rivers to mate and die.
Traveling to the outskirts of town and visiting neighboring villages and towns, I was able to glimpse the wilderness that was Alaska. Splendid in the summers, that are said to last only a day and a half, I bathed in the eternal sunshine. The sun never set on Anchorage, only moving sideways and robbing me of decent sleep, and yet, too excited by the beauty of my surroundings, I did not miss my sleep at all. Instead, I ate, saw, touched and took in the virgin beauty that was Alaska.
Humans in Alaska were mere species, small creatures without many effects in the large landscape that belonged to the native Alaskan gods. Bear, otter, fox, wolf, hare, elk, moose, eagle, and other creatures abounded, symbolizing the large, free, and rich land of space, resource, and nature in the last frontier of America. I saw the land as it was, when the first Europeans arrived, inhabited by quiet, shy natives, who lived in harmony with their rich surroundings. Hearts were large, and many Alaskans, native or not, were friendly, kind, and sharing.
Like Hawaii before the coming of Captain Cook, the land had been free of most diseases. Friends who were stationed in Anchorage in the 1960s swore that there were no colds or flu seasons, the winters being far too cold for viruses to survive or to spread and populations being too sparse and spread out to merit an epidemic.
I love Alaska and still dream of the day when I will see the Northern Lights create a large display in the sky. I imagine myself in a dog sled traveling across the ice and snow to a far off place. I also dream of the time when I would be invited to practice distance learning to Alaskan natives and people living in remote regions of the state who want to have a college education. Interminably gray skies in winter, frost on my face from my breath, and nights filled with darkness allowing my imagination to go wild would allow me to become far more creative than I could ever be in the hot, humid, noisy nights of the Hawaiian winters and summers.
When I spent my time in Los Angeles, I was witness to a time of great change. When I first arrived in the late 1960s, I recall a place that was gray, devoid of greenery, and also melancholy, filled with the lonely hearts of the struggling Hispanic people and the impoverished African-Americans. Over the decades, Los Angeles, like the rest of America, began to transform. From the times of hostility for minorities to the time of vitalization for the minorities, it is a far different place than in the past. I would like to say that Los Angeles has transformed itself for the better. While I am saddened by change in the old neighborhoods of my distant childhood, having lost the old buildings and the goodness, but I am never saddened by the changes in Los Angeles that have only become better with time.
The horrendous smog that blanketed a city that once did not regulate how much pollutants entered the air, became less smoggy and less caustic. It was easier to see and easier to breathe. The areas of town that were once filled with poverty and crime became safer and more beautiful, especially after the riots that called out for equality of treatment of the minorities.
I seek out new haunts, the old haunts having disappeared. Dirty bookshops that dotted the areas of downtown, the 99-cent stores that were popular, and the neglected shops of the poorer section have gone. In their place, there are interesting places for everyone, and new eateries and shops. And yet I do miss the old malt shop in downtown Los Angeles that made, in the local’s opinion, the best malts, best burgers, and best sundaes.
As a college student in Los Angeles in the 1990s, I thoroughly enjoyed the city. Like all modern cities, it was full of activity, energy and people. I still love it, even with its slums, crime, and dangers. Hollywood is no longer the glamorous place it was in my childhood and Beverly Hills is no longer as special, but in my dreams, in my memories, Los Angeles stands out as a city of my dreams.
Los Angeles, to me, is symbolic of a city that once became almost unlivable but was able to become a more hospitable place, and continues to become a hospitable place. However large and chaotic, however hopeless and impoverished, like the smiles of the Hispanics and other minorities, like the jaunty salsa that haunts the streets with its rhythm, Los Angeles continues to have hope in a better tomorrow. America is such that unlike many other countries, even the unhappiest circumstances, even the most impoverished areas, and even the dirtiest places can become better in time. I cannot imagine the slums of other countries, the people of the lower socio-economic strata, and the worst of places having any hope for a better tomorrow as we can in the United States.
Like my beloved Los Angeles, Las Vegas, or sin city as it is often called, also continues to improve and continues to surprise me. From a neglected city in the desert populated by people thought to be full of sin such as outlaws, gangsters, gamblers, prostitutes, drunkards, and criminal types, Las Vegas has become more wholesome in the decades that followed. The city expanded from the casinos outward, creating super-hotels that evoked the mirages that one might envision in the desert, dying of thirst.
Fountains full of cool, clean water fronting the Bellagio, the artificial but pretty canals of the hotel Venice, and the sculptures and cafes and patisserie of the hotel Paris all create an artificial image of being in Europe. Without ever stepping on a plane to Europe, an American can travel simply to a European place by driving across the Nevada desert.
Like the mirages rising out of the desert, technology, water, and architecture, along with modern conveniences have created an oasis in the Nevada desert which has punishing hot summers and cold winters. But within the insulated air of the casinos, its guests might never don an overcoat or sweat fitfully in the sun. Like the city created out of dreams and technology, America has continued to create hospitable environments out of inhospitable places such as the Arctic, Antarctica, the moon, outer space, and someday, Mars. What I know from my visits to Las Vegas, and many places in America where technology is king, is that dreams count for something. No one will laugh at one’s dreams or fantasies. No one’s dream is truly unattainable, and many things are possible, especially the ability to live comfortably and safely even in the most dangerous and most inhospitable of environments.
I am also fond of visiting states that allow for the mix of many cultures. Like Hawaii, California and Florida and, increasingly, New York are becoming the states where people gather, mingle, learn, and thrive. In spite of conflicts and battles between ethnic groups, in spite of danger and riots, these states continue to grow as their people intermarry, intermix, and adopt one another’s culture to create a greater culture. Imagine America without the beef taco, spaghetti, and pizza, Chinese takeout, sushi, and green tea. Imagine Americans without alternative health programs and health foods. It would be a very poor place indeed.
Like its foods, a mixture of different cultures where spaghetti with meatballs are found no where else on earth as well as pizza with meat (taboo in much of Italy), and beef taco with artificially crisped taco shells (also not found in Mexico), and chop suey (not found in China), the people too are a hodge podge of cultures. Speaking Spanglish, and Newyorrican, Chinese-English, and other languages also not found anywhere in the world, the younger generation continues to evolve.
Fashion magazines extol an oriental or Indian touch to their clothing. Mexican-style leather clothing and purses are popular as well. Health advice informs readers to eat more Chinese food, drink green tea and have soy beans in their diet regularly, and encourage people to have a Mediterranean diet with red wine and vinegar and green salads.
There are people who are not even Chinese who are experts in Feng Sui and in Tai Chi. There are those who practice martial arts such as karate, kung fu, and tae kwan do who have never set food in the lands of their origins. Famous American actors and actresses are practicing Buddhists and Hindus, having abandoned their generations-old tradition of Christianity, and some swear by acupuncture, yoga, and oriental-forms of meditation as improving the qualities of their lives.
Unbeknownst to most of us, however, is the spirit of the Native Americans that run strong in our blood, that saw the eagle as the symbol of their people, found the horse as the means to travel and expand and as a way of their nomadic existence, and freedom and love for country and nature. Millions of dead Native Americans have managed to settle into the living souls of non-Native Americans, who also feel the same love for the land that was once inhabited solely by their predecessors, the Native Americans, and have begun to feel the reverence for the land, the people, and now, their cultures as they celebrate by attending Pow-Wows and cultural events with their Native-American brothers.
It is strange how I can feel the love of the land of the Native Americans, knowing very little of their culture. I only know that as a lover of the vast, virgin land that was once North America, unspoiled by agriculture and by settlers, unexplored by most humans, I feel a small part of the land. The desire to become a steward of this land, to conserve its resources for generations to come, and to give back to a land that is so wild, rich, and special gives me a connection to the physical land of America.
Non-natives, who came in the place of the many Native Americans who perished in wars and from disease, also began to feel such a connection. It is this freedom to allow for the existence of such groups as Greenpeace, the Sierra Club, Earth Justice, Nature Conservancy, and many others that triumph over greedy developers, unwise politicians, and bad policies of the government that makes America a far better place than any other country, which would simply crush groups that opposed the government.
When I am in states that border other countries, such as California which borders Mexico, Florida which touches the Caribbean Sea and is host to the islands of the Caribbean, and New York which borders Canada, I see the vastness and influences of America on other lands. Sometimes, the American influence seems imposing. And at other times, it is good. Driving into Canada from Buffalo, New York, I can see the continuity in the physical landscape, but a subtle and yet obvious difference in the people. The pride of the Canadians, who boast of safe streets, safe cities, and pristine beauty, is true. Like an oasis of safety, I draw in a grateful breath, knowing that across the boarder in America there are cities that are unsafe and not as clean. Lacking the dense populations of the states in America, the colder regions of Canada have more forests and wild creatures than they have humans. Crossing from California into Mexico, however, there is a large cultural difference. For those unfamiliar with Hispanic culture, they are filled with fear or suspicion, but for myself, I smile fondly, hearing Spanish spoken, smelling the spicy foods, and feeling the Latin beat. It is the same when I am in Florida, the locals are filled with Hispanic flavor that continues in the Caribbean where many of them had immigrated from, legally or illegally.
Seeing our foreign neighbors in Canada and in Mexico, I feel glad that there are friendly relations, something not every country can have as many participate in border wars. Certainly there is tension and conflict that occurs when one shares natural boundaries, but they are resolved peacefully. Illegal immigrants, the issue of the day, had created battles with the United States, and yet how wonderful that there are many American citizens who appreciate the presence of immigrants from Mexico, legal or illegal, who have sacrificed their own safety and well-being to allow us to continue living with a high quality typical of developed countries. Without them we would not have fresh produce at such affordable prices, or clothing that is carefully sewn with the label, “Made in USA”.
There are Canadians among us who live in the United States, benefiting as ex-patriots. Without them, we would not have such a rich influx of different peoples. It is in America that we learn from one another, with the infusion of other cultures and languages, other ethnicities, to create a global community. That in itself is the true essence of living in the United States. Traveling through the states away from my island state, I can see that like the large flowing rivers that feed the Niagara, that borders Canada and the United States, and like the Sierras that divide Mexico and America, our physical boundaries, our natural lands, beckon to all who share it. And it is their love that creates a land called America. America is the land of travelers and the place where world travelers have come to rest. Coming in waves and in spurts from foreign lands, crossing dangerous deserts, crossing land bridges, riding on trains, coming by ship, by plane, and even on pieces of wood or on dilapidated boats, Americans have come to this place, filled with the adventurous hearts of true travelers who continue to inspire me into the 21st century.
Postscript: Dear Readers, where will we be in the 21st century? There are already passengers signed up to go to the moon and even to Mars. What will we see, and what will we learn? Stay tuned. Even if Earth-bound, be sure to travel somewhere special in your dreams and have many happy, positive experiences to enrich your lives.
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