I Was Born in the U.S.A.

I was indeed born in the USA, as was my daughter, though she has the added dimension of also being half-Belgian, and by extension, for the time being (meaning the fate of the EU that is), European. Both are something that some may forever see as a boon and/or a bane, a blessing and/or a curse.

For my own case, I have experienced both sides, being the recipient and the progenitor of vitriolic effusions about my homeland, but on the flipside, have also over Time, and as a result of extended travel to other ports of call around the world, have also respected and admired the uniqueness of a country like the USA and likewise defended it tooth and nail at times when I realized an antagonist knew next to nothing about my country. It is not an exaggeration to say that no other country on this planet has existed as such, nor will. Like it or not, the USA is something special. That is not out of grandiosity or patriotism, but rather from my own experience.

Before I traveled extensively, as I have done in the past quarter of a century, I was, however, rather naïve and “patriotic” about America (and yes, I fully understand and respect the various Americas such as northern North (Canada), Central and South, but for convenience sake, I speak now of America, the 48 contiguous states and the final two stars on the flag, Alaska and Hawai'i). But, when the rest of the world speaks about Americans, they usually are referring to those of us from the US.

When I first truly went abroad, when my sister married her first husband in Scotland, I landed on the parallel universe of the Plymouth Rock of my ancestors, that is, Victoria Station in London. I will never forget the ensuing rush of emotions and confusion and fascination that raced through my mind. I had re-arrived… My ex-wife often described a similar experience when she arrived in JFK for an AFS year abroad experience. Even if we do not land in the same place, it is interesting to know that we often can feel more at home in a completely foreign culture than the one we have grown up in., whether we are from there or not

Such was the case, and such, such were the days.

Over the years, if nothing else, I have gained new perspectives on being American and not-being American, and the middle road of just Be-ing me. It is a process and a journey, about which I have written, photographed, talked, listened, and just sat, thinking about.

The issue of my daughter’s own mixed heritage came up front and center as we flew into Brussels yesterday and were greeted in a very unfriendly manner at Immigration because we were only traveling with her US passport and not her Belgian one as well. She has made this trip nearly a dozen times in her young life already and nearly half of them alone with me and this was never an issue, until this individual made it so. The frustration lay not in the fact that we were accosted, but the way he spoke to us as “Americans” who just thought that we could waltz into Belgium. Well, I pay Belgian taxes and have paid my dues otherwise, so it rang very falsely in my ears.

But, I am also aware of the enormous struggles of Immigration from people going into the US as well, most directly my ex-wife, who is Belgian and my dear friend who is Colombian by birth and the trials and tribulations her family experienced over the years.

It is a tricky thing, the place where one is born and what “nationality” one actual is. For now, my daughter fits in perfectly in America as an American, speaking American English, but the second she sets foot in Belgium, she is “European” and speaks fluent Flemish. I have never had that luxury as all of the languages I have studied have been constant efforts and consequently I am perennially the “foreigner.”

Our language, our mannerisms, our political views, our religions convictions, our food habits, ways of dress, thoughts on sex, thoughts on marriage, thoughts on cultural heritage, views of family structures, economic situations, and countless other things all add up to the calculus of who we are and where we “fit in” or don’t

For me, I was indeed born an American, though in a Native American hospital, the one white baby in there at the time, from what I have been told and perhaps from the beginning at times I have been the odd one out. Going back and forth from the US to Europe and recently India provides me each time with a new perspective, both about the boons and the banes, and everything in between.

I Saw Something Nasty in the Woodshed

Everyone's got one.

A woodshed that is.

We've all got our own paralyzing fears that have dictated our lives for so long, and we replay them over and over in our minds, injecting a soul-numbing toxicity into our well-being, but for what?

The problem with woodsheds is that we often spend too much time worrying about every else's woodshed instead of our own. We wonder, "what could be in his woodshed?" Or, "I bet her woodshed is dirtier than mine..." And, so on.

I had a woodshed in Austin, Texas, where we lived for many years. Our home was built in the 1930's era by hand by the original German owner. It was, as is typical, a wooden house on a pier and beam construction. Hand-crafted and felt like a home. Soon after moving in, we converted the garage, which was a euphemism for a gigantic cockroach apartment complex, complete with multi-plex theater, full-service gym, a few restaurants, a park for the little cockroaches, and, well, you get the picture. So, I gutted the garage and had Ed the construction guy from North Carolina, along with his hired-gun electrician, John, who inexplicably wore women's underwear and drove a Corvette, renovate the space into a utility area, darkroom, and guest bedroom with bathroom.

In order to not then just have a blank wall where the garage door used to be, I went to Home Depot (which was Builder's Square at the time) and got me a woodshed. (Actually, it was a toolshed, but that doesn't work for this extended metaphor from the movie...so, it was a woodshed). And, with some finagling, I put it together and soon had a bona fide, particle-board woodshed, complete with shingles. I painted it to match the color scheme of the house, which was semi-legendary in our neighborhood I might add, and voilà and voici, there was a woodshed that blended into the house.

However, there was one problem, it was of inferior quality to the house. It looked good and fine on the outside, but on the inside, it was a mess. Try as I might, there was no getting rid of the roaches in the woodshed, and the other myriad of insects, including termites. We had the entire grounds treated for the termites, and it worked for the house, but the damage was done on the woodshed. It continued to rot out over the years, and continued to get junkier and junkier, despite my feeble efforts to clean it out.

So, one day, after many years of having a sub-par woodshed, I emptied it and I tore it down. Razed it to the ground in a triumphant heap of debris and had it carted away with a neighboring construction project. Then, matched the old paint, re-painted the side of the garage and had two window put into that façade. Suddenly, it was a new garage apartment. On the outside, it looked great. On the inside, there was light and air.

Often we try and we try to maintain an old woodshed, or keep shoving junk in there and closing the door, thinking it will just go away, but it doesn't. Sooner or later, we have to tear the woodshed down. Raze it to the ground, and build up something better in its stead.

I admired the craftsmanship of that house, and I insulted it by placing a cheap, knock-off, fake woodshed next to it. A coat of paint won't cover the defects, so it was time to go.

Tearing down the woodshed gave me new perspective on things. You can see new possibilities which were clouded before, and when you don't have the woodshed any longer to throw your junk into, then you stop collecting junk.

Something to learn from the clip below as well. When we are so wrapped up in our own misery, we forget the world around us. Moreover, perspective is a wonderful thing to gain.