I'm in America. AMERICA! It's even shinier than I remembered! The roads are smooth, the food, abundant, and finally I'm just another anonymous American going through the motions. My motions, however, are fulfilled blissfully. Send me to the grocery store for a loaf of bread and I'll return 2 hours later. After all, it's my patriotic duty to pirouette down each aisle admiring, touching, and giggling at the veritable cornucopia of choice. Mundane tasks like filling the gas tank are opportunities to soak in the beauty of a functioning society. In Tanzania we travel with liters of gas in milk cartons to top up after we've come to a halt in the middle of nowhere.
These rose, white, and blue colored glasses are temporary. I can't forever be impressed by the 225 types of crackers for sale. I'm realizing America equates consumerism. I forgot how inundated we are by advertisements. We are all material whores. Look around you. How many things at your desk are critical to your survival? How many things in a two-foot radius do you actually use? I'm not pointing fingers, because this is our culture. We proved we can survive, now we're all gluttons. More, bigger, leather interior, 500 gazillion gigabytes, sleek, sexy, status. Who are we? We cloak ourselves in gadgets and gizmos, MAC makeup and mini dresses. In America we live so easily through alter egos. But strip it all away, all the clothes and cars, the feng shui apartment, the fake tits, the Ray Bans, the convertible. Are we even likable? Do we have heart? Are we interesting?
I'm not advocating a mass material bonfire. People work hard to buy their happiness. I'm also not saying manual farm labor is a more fulfilling existence. I'm only sharing with you my quest to find a middle ground. In my strange and cluttered mind (think Japanese anime meets Chelsea Handler meets a chubby 14 year old boy), the place I can relax most, is where I'm ankle deep in chicken shit tending to my animals. For a girl once barely capable of remembering to fill the dog's bowl, I am now a chicken farmer. Why do I do it? And more importantly, why do I enjoy it? There is immeasurable satisfaction that comes with taking control of one's surroundings and learning to use nature to survive. Strip away the grocery store, GPS, google, and who would last five minutes? The pleasure of eating tomatoes that you nurtured from seedlings or scrambling eggs from your own backyard...come on, that's living! I don't want to be a farmer. Come August 2010 the closest I want to be to a farm is a Farmer's Market. I also don't want to disguise myself with the smoke and mirror bullshit materialism that supposedly defines our success and happiness.
For now, I'm reveling in the novelty of America. When I go to the bars in Scottsdale I fit in. Well, at least until I open my mouth. To shun consumerism, our American culture, is overwhelming and frankly, senseless. I would be an outsider. For 1.5 years I've been an outsider in terms of race, religion, culture, and education. While standing on the edge of it all has its perks on perspective, let's be honest...I enjoy a nice meal, a spiky pair of stilettos, and the easy existence of friends, family, and an Ipod Touch.
America and I have a complicated but empathetic relationship. We may not be life partners, but we're in an open relationship that is finally based on trust, understanding, and patience. I love America. Despite her questionable priorities, vanity, and total disregard for the preservation of resources, I can see her inner strength and perseverance.
Take a look around you today. Examine all of the clutter in your life. Don't throw it away, don't feel guilty. Just be aware. But excuse me, it's time for my 2pm kitchen raid.
Patriotically yours,
Kate
