Most mornings, after I’ve silenced my alarm and had a few moments to allow the grogginess of sleep to fade from my head, I open the New York Times app on my phone. Usually, I like to read the cooking blog or Modern Love, but I also like to know what’s going on in the world. For some reason, I hate to think of starting my morning and going about my day without knowing about some major news event that has just occurred. However, it feels like the headlines are almost always the same in the U.S. section. Another shooting. In California. Not at a church this time but at a nightclub. Now it’s Texas, but at a concert. Then at a farm. I feel shattered every time, but perhaps even worse, I rarely feel surprised. My mind goes to the motive. “What was it this time?” Untreated mental illness? Someone in the grips of bigoted hatred or conspiracy theories? I once read a quote that said every country struggles with racism, sexism, disputes among its citizens. The difference is that Americans have guns.
Last summer, I was working at a local store in my hometown. One afternoon, a man came in with a pistol strapped to his hip. Despite his warm smile, I felt uneasy. He started making small talk, asking me what kind of honey I’d recommend he get. His wife loves the kind we sell, he told me, and he wanted to surprise her with a new jar. I relaxed a bit. This man was clearly not a threat to me. Unfortunately, the open-carrying of weapons is all too common in my home state of Montana. I’ve always pondered the reason why someone would feel the need to be armed at all times in public. I assume these individuals feel that they could come to the aid of others in the case of a shooting. However, research has told us that reaction times are usually not quick enough in these types of situations. After the man left, I realized the absurdity of the situation. Here was a perfect stranger essentially expecting me to trust that he was the “good guy”, that he would protect me in the face of danger, not be a danger to me. However, unlike the hero’s of old spaghetti Westerns, he wore no white cowboy hat to signify his goodness. For all I know, he could’ve had a black bandana hidden in his back pocket.
Like a worn cloth, the United States often appears as though it is unraveling. Bit by bit, acts of senseless violence tug at the threads. It’s easy to feel angered and discouraged by a country that appears to turn a blind eye to its inner turmoil and elements of its infrastructure that ultimately are not only non-functional but destructive (I’m looking at you, American health care system). I feel it is incredibly important to separate the disease of violence that has taken root and the essence of the country itself. But I still get teary every time I board the plane to leave. No, it’s not a case of Stockholm syndrome, but the feeling of leaving a part of myself halfway across the world. I miss the landscapes, rugged mountains, snowy fields, and dense forests. I miss being able to disappear into the wilderness to camp or hike, feeling totally removed from the rest of the world. A couple summers ago, I made the forty-five mile drive with friends up an almost entirely dirt road to the town of Polebridge, Montana. The town only contains a mercantile which doubles as a bakery and a bar with a stage for live music. My friend was performing that evening and as people began to gather, making friendly chit-chat, strangers becoming friends. Dusk was beginning to fall and the dramatic peaks surrounding up became silhouettes. I remember thinking; “this is my favorite place on Earth.”
My relationship with my country ebbs and flows like the tide. Sometimes watching its recent decline feels like watching a beloved family member with self-destructive tendencies. It’s heartbreaking, but I’m not going to defend the ways of my countrymen and women or those who make or fail to make the laws that would save lives. I will, however, defend the world of my childhood, the culture in which I was raised. I’ll defend the creativity, courage, and passion shown by those who want to fight injustice, corruption, and hatred. And I will continue to drag friends and partners halfway across the world to my home and point out landmarks, natural beauty, my old stomping grounds, and say “look at this! This is a part of me.”
