(Untouched)

Full of dirty clothes
The worn suitcase rests aside.

Still full from the journey,

Both it and the sleepy traveler

Wait to unpack it all.

Thoughts Approaching the Finish Line

I’m heading back to Nashville with less than an hour left, and for the first time I’m not that excited. Usually when I’m approaching Nashville, I’m completely thrilled because I know that fun times will ensue. But today is different. This moment is bittersweet because heading towards Belmont means that the 40/40 trip has come to an end.

It seems like just a couple days ago I was on a plane headed for Nashville in order to embark on this “trip of a life time.” Even then, this academic excursion seemed like something that would not really happen. I kept thinking that I was dreaming and that someone would soon wake me and inform me that I wasn’t really going anywhere. But the fact of the matter is that never happened. I, in fact, have been across the country and have seen more than I ever expected to see and done more as well. I sat on the same steps of Central High School that the Little Rock Nine once ascended towards integration. I saw my first Broadway show in New York City and I was completely enthralled despite the fact that I didn’t have an actual seat. I saw extreme poverty coupled with infectious hope on the Navajo reservation in New Mexico. I caught a glimpse of the ugliness of oppression while Memphis. I ate awesome seafood in Seattle. I saluted Abraham Lincoln at his memorial in D.C. I watched All American fireworks in Boston on the 4th of July. I floated lazily in the Atlantic Ocean and loved the briny taste.

It’s interesting because I expected to have a clear idea of what it means to be an American when I came back from this trip, but I don’t. I honestly think that I had a better idea of what I thought it meant to be an American before I left. Now I don’t know. There are so many different parts of the United States with such different people that I’m not sure I can say these different people and cultures are united by anything. But maybe I’m just still overwhelmed. Maybe when the dust in my mind settles a little more I’ll be able to process everything a lot better. But even if I can’t process everything, I firmly believe that this trip has been worth it. The fact I am now questioning what I knew to be certain before shows me that I’ve been impacted by this experience. And that impact will continue to manifest for weeks and maybe even months to come. Maybe this isn’t the end. Maybe it’s just the beginning.

The ever-evolving Theme Song

It’s interesting how much music is such a part of the American culture. Since day one I had been thinking about a particular song that that might serve as a theme song of sorts for me on this trip. It’s evolved over the course of 40 days several times.

Before we even left I posted John Legend’s Green Light on my blog. I liked it because the chorus was about wanting the green light and being ready to go, and while we were still at school that was my thinking: I was “ready to right now”. It made sense in my mind for a brief period. However, the fact of the matter is that song is referring to courting a woman, and while I could be ultra artistic and say that the woman in the song represents America for me that is not true. It didn’t really fit my journey.

Once we were finally on the road I noticed that a particular song kept playing on the radio. It was “Boom Boom Pow,” by the Black Eyed Peas. Whenever time this song came on while we were driving Chris, Rashina, and I would get so excited. And by excited I mean that we would bounce and dance so much that our van would shake. If there were days when our group was separated into two vans and the three of us weren’t together, we would call the missing person and tell them “our song” was on 98.5 of 160.3 or whatever radio station it was. Those were such great moments because no matter what the previous situation, that song would evoke such joy out of us. It was almost a routine. As soon as the song would come on everyone in the van knew what to expect. And after a while it became infectious; so much so that I caught Dr. Stepnick singing “I’m so three thousand and eight, you so two thousand and late” once or twice. However, as much as I loved this song, I felt there was more to be said about what the trip meant for me, and that’s when a Gnarls Barkley song came to mind.

As we left our bus (aptly known as Big Mama) broken down on the side of the road in Florida, our “rescue bus” was filled with mixed emotions. I myself had mixed emotions but rather than acknowledge them, I decided to retreat to my music. The first song that I came across was “Going On” by Gnarls Barkley which is composed of upbeat psychedelic music coupled with the following lyrics:

I’ve seen it with my own eyes-How we’re gettin’ otherwise -Without the luxury of leavin’ -The touch and feeling of free is -Untangible technically -Something you’ve got to believe in-Connect the cause and effect -One foot in front of the next -This is the start of a journey. -And my mind is already gone -And though there are other unknowns- Somehow this doesn’t concern me.

And you can stand right there if you want- But I’m going on- And I’m prepared to go it alone- I’m going on- To a place in the sun that’s nice and warm- I’m going on

And I’m sure they’ll have a place for you too oohoohoo

Anyone that needs what they want, and doesn’t want what they need -I want nothing to do with -And to do what I want -And to do what I please -Is first of my to-do list- But every once in a while I think about her smile-One of the few things I do miss -But baby I‘ve to go -Baby I’ve got to know-Baby I’ve got to prove it

And I’ll see you when you get there-But I’m going on-And I’m prepared to go it alone-I’m going on- May my love lift you up to the place you belong-I’m going on- And I promise I’ll be waiting for you oohoohoo

As I listened to the song, I couldn’t help but think how fitting it was that “Going On” would play as I was left the bus, headed for Nashville, because it was one of the first songs that I listened to my first night on “Big Mama.” It was an interesting moment of coming full circle. Then as I began to listen to the lyrics more I began to realize how much they spoke to this trip for me. The song is about moving on, which is what this trip essentially was about. I began to think about how much “moving” had been taking place: moving on to new experiences and new things everyday, literally moving on to a new place everyday, learning more about the American culture, letting go of fears and misconceptions, and also letting go of the familiar. This trip has been such a leap of faith, and that’s what the speaker is talking about is when they refer to “the other unknowns.” I had no clue of what to expect, but I knew that I had to move on. And for the most part, I have done it alone. Granted I’ve been with eleven other people for forty days, the truth is that each of us has been on our own personal journeys for the past forty days. We each have different perspectives, even on our shared experiences. And we’re not done moving. We must still move on after these 40 days, because there are papers to write. And not only that, we all have lives to live. Some of us have graduations to move on to soon. Others have more school. Others more trips to take. We all have our separate paths. We all have to move on from each other to see what life has for us next. And maybe we will all reunite one day; there’s a chance, just like the hope of reunion that the speaker in the song mentions. The only way that we’ll know is to put one foot in front of the next to see where life takes us. So I’m going on.

Moments of Recognition

Considering the fact that it broke down, our last day on the bus was pretty uneventful. We all just sat around and relaxed, partly because we were in the middle of nowhere but also because we all needed the time to relax. For about two hours I retreated to my bunk to watch a movie. I thought it interesting that I would wait until my last day on the bus to use the personal DVD player in my bunk, but I honestly hadn’t had much time before that.

I settled on watching Vicky Christina Barcelona, which some may consider a “chick flick”, but I didn’t care. In the end I was surprised. It wasn’t that much of a “chick flick,” and it was actually well done. I thought that the acting was great. I was impressed with Scarlett Johansson’s performance and as well as her counter part, whose name I can’t remember. I couldn’t place where I’d seen her before, and actually wasn’t sure if I had seen here somewhere before. Regardless I thought that she did a great job of holding her own up against such august cast mates like Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem.

The writing is what really caught my attention though. Prior to watching the film, I had talked with several people who mentioned that they didn’t quite enjoy the writing, so that made me pay closer attention, I was pleased. There were some scenes that were a little far fetched, but I think that the unrealistic moments fit into this story well, because it’s as much about people’s fantasies as it is about their realities. The main thing that I enjoyed about the writing was the concepts of triangles and parallels that I kept noticing through out the film. This made me take notice of what the writer was actually trying to do. By the end of the movie Vicky and Christina have both changed significantly, despite the fact that they are still in the same situations that they started in. But I digress from my main point

As I watched the film, there were several moments where I began to think about how cool it would be have their situation: to be young, carefree, traveling and expanding one’s cultural horizons. Then I would remember that I am their situation. I am young. I am carefree. I’ve been traveling across the country. I am expanding my cultural horizons. And on top of that I won’t have to deal with jet lag when I’m done. This trip has been awesome, because I have been to places that I may not have ever gone to. If it weren’t for this trip I think I would have ended up like every other college student who goes abroad before really understanding home. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with traveling abroad, and I still think that you have an opportunity to understand more of what America is like, but it’s from a different perspective. Now when I go to Spain, I can be more confident in my American culture, while embracing Spanish culture because I’ve been there and done that, and I know what it means to be an American.

St. Augustine- Beach Prose

As we walked back towards the shore, I heard someone say, “I hate this.” They just happened to be talking about coming out of the water with nothing on but a bathing suit, but those few words made me think of something very different. Suddenly it seemed so poetic to me that on one of our last days we would encounter the beach.

The beach of all places had come to represent this trip at that moment for me. You get dressed and ready and head for the water. You walk through what seems to be miles of sand until you hit this body of water that looks like it wants to envelope you. It’s cold and overwhelming at first, but as you go further and further away from the safety of the shore, you get used to it all. Used to the tidal waves, to the brine, to the temperature and the threat of sharks that may come. But then as soon as you get comfortable, and as soon as you start to really enjoy it, it is time to go. And so you walk back to the sand smelling of brine and clenching your teeth from the chilling winds hitting your salt water skin.

How interesting is it that three people walking so close can have thoughts that are so far from the others? Coming out of our oceanic wilderness her thoughts were the on difficulties of transparency while, while mine were centered on the pain of goodbye and his were on God knows what. Probably something equally as polar. We will never be here again. We will never be the same people in the same place and the same moment under the same circumstances again.
How much of my experience I would have changed if I could? Probably not much, but no one can ever say for certain. It’s so important to live each moment fully, because you never know when it’s your last.

Mm Mm Good…

Charleston, South Carolina is revered for its "genteel " elegance and southern tradition. But also on the opposite side of that, Charleston is also known for the grass roots culture of the Gullah people. And while I was impressed with the charm of downtown Charleston, I admit that my rendezvous with Gullah culture left a far sweeter taste in my mouth than I expected.
As our class shuffled into Gullah Cuisine, a restaurant located in the Mt. Pleasant part of Charleston, I held a certain level of hesitancy with my excitement. The only thing that I knew about Gullah people was what I got from that Nickelodeon TV series that featured a big yellow polliwog, so I was excited to learn more about the culture—I just wasn’t that excited about eating the food.

Pearce had called ahead to inform the restaurant that we were waiting and Kesha was there waiting for us when we arrived. It was her family’s restaurant and she had instructed them to reserve the large dining area for us. We settled down and she introduced herself as well as the culture behind the restaurant. She quickly explained that the Gullah people were slaves from Sierra Leone who remained near the beaches of South Carolina after they were emancipated. She went on elaborating on the grass baskets that they are known for and the origins of Gullah cuisine. Like slaves and freed slaves after that, the Gullah people were often force to use scraps to make their food from, and from these scraps, or undesirable vegetables and meat parts Gullah cuisine was born. It soon occurred to me that this sounded similar to the origins of soul food, which is what I grew up eating.

As Kesha went on, she mentioned that Gullah food was very rich and that a lot of it was seafood based. She mentioned several dishes we could try like broccoli casserole, yams, collard greens and succotash, and I was heading for the buffet. These were all foods that I was familiar with. I loaded my first plate with BBQ pork, yams, macaroni and cheese, succotash, collard greens, okra and a huge roll. And I devoured all of it. I wasn’t the only one either. After everyone in my group sat down with food, our room was completely silent because everyone was eating, and this is always proof of good food.

As I continued to work on my first plate I took a sip of sweet tea and felt joy come over me. It occurred to me that I hadn’t felt so much like myself in a long time. And then I also realized that I hadn’t had soul food, the food I grew up on, my comfort food, in a really long time either. It actually hadn’t been since our day Little Rock. Vegetarian food, Thai food, Sushi, Polish food, Italian food, Indian food, Mexican food, and even organic foods are great but there is something about Soul Food that woke up a part of me that had been sleeping.
After noticing Pearce’s second plate, and my empty first plate, I knew it was time for more. And as I walked back to the buffet I noticed that I had an “extra pep in my step,” and I just assumed it the presence of food in my belly and it was the food; this particular type of food that was feeding my body and soul.

My second plate consisted of seafood casserole over white rice, broccoli casserole, more macaroni and cheese, more yams and another buttery roll. I decided to take it easy though, so I switched from sweet tea to water. That didn’t help too much though because halfway into my second plate I started to get full. But I didn’t force myself to finish, I just sat back and “took a break” while Kesha continued talking to us.

As she continued to talk about her family I couldn’t help but think how similar it sounded to my family. My family doesn’t come from the Gullah culture, but I wondered how central some of their ideas about family were in the black culture as a whole, and also cultures across the world. Hearing her talk about her grandparents and their experiences in the South made me think about my grandparents, who were also from the South and I could feel pride rising up inside me.

It was interesting because Kesha talked a lot about being proud of where you are from. She encouraged all of us to be proud of where we are from and that made me think of where I am from and how that shapes my identity. Kesha said she had the best of both worlds because she grew up in Jersey, but spent her summers in Mt. Pleasant, and that resonated with me. I realized that I have been blessed in that way as well. I grew up on the South Side of Chicago but because of my grandparents I also have southern roots. I looked back on my childhood began to appreciate every family reunion and every plate of greens and cornbread (that I hated as a little boy) I had encountered. I picked up my fork and I continued to eat MY food, because it was mine and it was already apart of me.

When we left Gullah Cuisine that day I was thankful. I was thankful not only for good food that fed my soul, but also for the Gullah experience because it presented this picture of pride in oneself and one’s family that I hadn’t seen before so clearly. Is that part of what it means to be an American? To be proud of where you come from? As I sat back in the van with a belly full of food, I knew for sure that Gullah culture was something worth digesting.

Natural Beauty

One part of our trip that I haven’t touched on much thus far has been my experiences in some of the National Parks that we’ve visited. The truth is that I can’t. Many of the National Parks were so different from what I’m used to saying that I can’t elaborate on them much because, I’m still processing them. Suffice it to say that for me the National Parks on this trip were like oases along this forty day journey.

With this trip the national parks have been some very refreshing for me, but also for my group as a whole. Cities and towns are great, but there is something very special about spending time in nature. It’s interesting because I think that sometimes I felt more American and more patriotic in the National Parks than I did in some cities, but it’s a different type of “Americanism.” What I loved about the parks was seeing the beauty that is America. I think that geographically our country is very unique. Because it’s so big we have such a wide variety of landscape; a wider variety than most countries. Yellowstone, Glacier Park, the Redwoods, the Badlands, and even the Mt. Rushmore are all very different areas. And yet they’re all here in the United States.

While in all of these areas I couldn’t help but think about the fact that at one point, our entire country looked like these areas, and it’s bittersweet for me. On one hand it shows how much we as Americans have destroyed our country in hopes of becoming more sophisticated. New York City and Detroit look a lot different than Glacier Park. But on the other side of that I think that the parks also show what early American Settlers had to deal with. Looking at areas like Yellowstone and even the Redwoods shows how hard the settlers from the past must have worked in order to create towns for their families. And over the years these towns became more and more exaggerated as we grew more accustomed to the land, and while this exaggeration isn’t that great, it also ingenuity. Comparing Yellowstone and New York City shows how far our country has come in the last two hundred years both negatively and positively.

But I also think that comparing the two shows how big and diverse this country is and how diverse it is supposed to be. Sometimes this diversity isn’t as clear in some places, and in others it’s even there, and yet still in other places it’s not even important. But I think that if you look at the different areas within this country from metropolitan cities, to to small towns, to rural areas, and finally the wild areas such as National Parks (which aren’t all that wild anymore) you get a clear picture that America is special because of all of it’s different areas. And I wonder if more Americans got a chance to see how wide the spectrum of America’s landscape truly is, how much more accepting of different people we would become. Just a thought.

A person's a person, no matter how...

Howard Fineman, in his national bestseller “Thirteen American Arguments” basically says that there are thirteen basic arguments that the principles of our country are based on, and that these arguments were “set into motion by a Declaration of ‘self evident truths’ that every person is entitled to freedom and respect. These arguments range from topics like the environment, the terms of trade, the limits of individualism and fundamentally, the question of who a person is. With this particular argument, Fineman goes on to explain that the central idea on which this country is based, (the thought that all souls are created equal and are entitled to personhood, dignity, and respect), is not very clear at all. So he raises the question of personhood in his first chapter.

Visiting El Paso, Texas made me think about this idea of personhood. Because El Paso is located so closely to the Mexican Border, I couldn’t help but think about America’s immigration situation. This is such an interesting city to think about in terms of immigration because El Paso was the gateway city between the United States and Mexico for many years. It’s clear in the name because in English El Paso means “the pass. Thinking about this gateway city, several questions come to mind. Who’s to say when a person is fully a citizen? Who’s to say that someone from Mexico can’t come over to a country full of immigrants? I think it’s absurd, but at the same time there is some sense to it as well. If anybody was allowed to go whenever they wanted there would be no order and order is important. But when someone does have the privilege of coming from Mexico to the United States, why should they have to give up their culture for American culture?

While we were in El Paso, Aunt Lunell (our unofficial tour guide) took our class to the Ranch Market of El Paso in one of the more Mexican parts of town. “More Mexican,” because you can see at least small traces of Mexican culture influencing American culture everywhere in El Paso. Everyone in our group was fairly excited about getting fresh fruit because we had been eating very unhealthy for the past couple of days. And then we stepped inside. This was not a grocery store. This was a fiesta. There was energetic music playing and dozens of people walking around eating. Our group quickly fell in line, picking up fruit and other healthy snacks as well. Some of us even made our way over to the juice bar, conveniently placed close to the registers, and got fresh fruit juices. I got something called “Jamaica,” that tasted like grapes, cherries, and a bit of mango (?) and I loved it. It was just enough to fuel me on as we continue shopping. We bought bananas, oranges, mango, cereal, fresh bread, even a pineapple. We were so excited to buy and I think that the atmosphere helped lend it self to that. I’ve never been to Mexico, but I think that this was the clearest example of pure Mexican culture that I had seen in America thus far. I was happy that this group of people didn’t feel the need to dumb down their heritage in order to be accepted.

Later on that night our group had a conversation on the bus about how everyone was coping with the trip. People aired concerns, and everyone else listened. Going back to Fineman, I was happy to find that there was no hierarchy of personhood taking place on the bus. If one person had an issue then it was something that everyone took into consideration, because we all are equal. There were no major problems, but just a couple minor adjustments to be made. So we made them, and we ended another great day.

We thought that was the end, until our bus driver Rueben was stopped at 3AM by the border patrol. They targeted our bus because they suspected that we could potentially be harboring “illegals.” They soon realized that they were wrong and got off of our bus after making tons of noise. Up until then the day had been good, and I was under the impression that maybe life in El Paso wasn’t so bad for a Mexican American. This was a false impression. But thanks to the border patrol, I now know that there is still a lot of improvement to be made in immigrant relations along the border. Thanks guys. ‘Preciate it.

Mere sentences can move mountains

While in Philadelphia I also got the chance to hear the Declaration of Independence read in front of Independence Hall. At first I didn’t understand why it was being read on the eighth and not on the fourth of July like it was in Boston, but Heather conveniently reminded me that the eighth of July is the anniversary of the first public reading of the Declaration. Soon after this I heard the clock nearby strike twelve and immediately all those gathered were silent. The front door of Independence Hall opened and three gentleman dressed in 18th century garb came out and marched up to the podium, where the gentleman in front pulled out a scroll and began to read.

Needless to say this reading was more a dramatic reenactment. Not only was there a dramatic opening but there were also people in the crowd dressed in the same style as the soldiers who were shouting adlibs, like “Men are equal,” and “Freedom.” But what was interesting was that there were also people who were shouting adlibs in favor of the king. This caused the two “opposing sides” to interact with each other. At one point, two women to my right were arguing about breaking away from Brittain; one was agreed and the other opposed and they argued adamantly as if they were to decide on the future of the Colonies.

This reading was such a clear contrast from Boston, where it was just read by a Commanding Captain with everyone listening. I think that in the dramatization, people got a much clearer understanding. Because it was exaggerated, the viewers got a better idea of what it may have been like when the declaration was read for the first time. As the solider read on there were different parts where those in the crowd yelled out in excitement, along with the sounds of cars driving past.

I think that that the main thing that I got from experiencing both different readings, has been a clear example of the power of language. Thomas Jefferson wrote the declaration so long ago, and yet it’s still as powerful as was over two hundred years ago. In both readings there were people nearby who got chills as the distinguished reader would project phrases such as, “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”. After having read the constitution for myself and hearing it read I’m starting to think that part of the reason why Americans love the ideals of the Declaration so much is because of the way in which it’s crafted. It took Thomas Jefferson several days (and apparently several drafts according to the Ford Museum) to get it just right to where all of the delegates felt like their voices were represented.

What I appreciated about the reading of the Declaration in Philly was that it was a nice intersection of Drama, History, Language, and even change.

I’ve already mentioned the dramatics, so it should be clear, but it helps to feed into the history as well. Over two hundred years ago, the Declaration was read for the first time, in that same courtyard probably. It makes one wonder who may have stood where I stood wondering what the future would hold for them and their family. Because of the dramatics the audience then has a better grasp on the history that is behind it.

Also as I mentioned before I couldn’t help think about the power of language, but more importantly the power of words as I watched the reenactment. This document was written over two hundred years ago, and yet it still carries weight. For me it’s a reminder of how timeless our words can be. The words that we write and even the words that we speak go out into the universe and they don’t come back. The United States can never “un-send” the Declaration to England. Thomas Jefferson can never go back and “un-write” or re-write the Declaration. And there’s beauty in that for the present and also for the future.

The Declaration helped to set the basic ideals of America in place. While these ideals weren’t originally meant for everyone at the time that they were written, you can’t argue with the fact that the Declaration states that “all men are created equal.” Therefore, because it was crafted so well, we can then go back and get it right. Again because of the power of language groups that were once marginalized are now recognized. We may not be where we need to be as a country but we have improved a lot in this regard.

So while some people may call things like a dramatic reading of the constitution “cheesy,” I would suggest that it’s helpful because it’s another step in reminding us of what it means to be an American.

What's the Deal with American Celebrity?

As we’ve gone on this trip, we have encountered several examples of celebrity. Looking back over our time spent on the road I think it’s a bit funny who we choose to honor and how we honor them.

In Memphis our class went Graceland and observed how people paid homage to “the King.” It’s interesting because I started out as a skeptic, but after meandering through the socially constructed maze, I began to like Elvis and even appreciate him as an artist. I quickly came back to my senses, but still acknowledging that he was an exceptional entertainer. But most of the visitors were still in awe as they walked around his memorial where flowers from all over had been carefully placed. I have nothing against Elvis, and I’ll admit that going through Graceland did make me realize that he was a much more effective entertainer than I thought he was, but at the same time he’s just a man, and I couldn’t help but wonder if all of that was really necessary.

Then Michael Jackson passed away and I was extremely sad. I was sad because of the fact that he actually was a talented person, and yet had a reputation for being a bit crazy. Putting child molestation allegations to the side, so what if Mike was crazy? So what if he liked strange things? Is that our business? Just because he shared part of his music and his talent with us doesn’t mean we have a right to his entire life. With that thought in mind, should it even matter if he or Elvis had drug problems? People in our group were upset at the fact that the Graceland Memorial didn’t tell the truth about his death. His drug addiction shouldn’t be that big of an issue. It shouldn’t matter to his fans, because it didn’t affect them, and they also shouldn’t put him on such a pedestal that the mention of his vices makes them lose heart in their celebrity. The same thing goes with Michael Jackson and every other celebrated person. I think that people don’t realize how dangerous it is to celebrate a person.

Our group was fortunate enough to be able to go to a Roots Concert while in Cleveland, and it was great. I absolutely loved it because I was watching great hip hop artists perform live. That is until the celebrity showed up. Granted, Black Thought and his crew had been on stage for a while, but “the celebrity” didn’t show up until the end of the show. Some of the guys in the band were feeling the crowd and then somebody threw out a towel. A plain white towel. It floated over to the left and a group people about fifty feet away from me went crazy and started reaching for it. This happened several other times with towels, hats, and even a pair of drum sticks. I didn’t think much of it until after the concert when I over heard someone mention how they got hurt because people were jumping for a towel. A plain white towel. I’m not faulting The Roots, or the crowd. It was great show and I loved it, and if I would have been closer I probably would have reached for an item as well. However, I do blame society for conditioning us to celebrate artists so much that we are wiling to fight over towels.

While we were in DC touring the monuments, part of our group headed over to the World War Two Memorial to see what the drama was about, because Dr. Stepnick mentioned that a lot of people were upset about the way that it was crafted. I didn’t have much of a problem with it, except for the fact that I questioned what this memorial was memorializing, because there were so many references to “winning” and “victory.” I decided that the architect probably thought it would be nice to include such words to alleviate the pain that WW2 may bring up for some people. I thought that seemed understandable because war is a tough thing to think about. So I kept walking around to see more and I noticed that there were several people standing by this loud gushing fountain that feed into a type of reflecting pool. I thought for a second about the loudness of the fountain and then I focused my attention on the fact that people were standing around enjoying the pool. Some were even sitting next to it, with their feet in the water, and that made me slightly happy to see because some of my classmates did the same thing in Love Park. I thought it was nice that people were trying to connect with history as I passed to young ladies with their feet submerged and I even thought about dipping mine until I saw a sign. It was about 8 feet away from these girls and I could read it from where I was.

It read: “Please Respect the Memorial. Keep out of the Pool Area.” I looked around to see how many signs were posted and how many people were ignoring them. It was depressing. There were signs up everywhere asking people to keep out of the pool and yet dozens of people were dipping their filthy toes into that pool. This pool wasn’t filled with any special water or anything, but my offense was based principle. The sign plainly instructed people not to do something and yet they did it anyway.

My mind automatically went back to Graceland and the level of reverence that people approached Elvis’s memorial with. Where was that reverence in DC at a Memorial honoring countless men lost in war? What does it mean when we honor those entertain us over those who keep us safe? What does it mean when Elvis, Michael Jackson and the Roots are honored over Private Michael DeWitt, or Sergeant Thomas Morrison or Lieutenant James Marshall? Maybe the lack of appreciation for history is the reason why so many parts of history can be left unnoticed and the world unchanged.

Passionate People Make the World Go Round

What is passion? Traveling across the US, our class has been so blessed to have encountered so many interesting, passionate people. Most of these people are just everyday people who believe in something, and I feel that they deserve to be recognized. If I had a million dollars to give every passion person that I’ve met on this trip, I would have to be Bill Gates, because I have met that large of a number:

There’s Thomas from St. Bernard’s Community Center in New Orleans who gives up his time to serve the people of the Ninth Ward.

Lee Silversmith from the Navajo reservation that devoted his entire day to educating our class on Navajo culture and the amount of suffering his people have had to deal with.

Aunt Lunell, who gave up time to escort our class onto Fort Bliss, and guide us for the rest of the day there as well. Along with the numerous soldiers who welcomed us into their Fort and who sit in anticipation of their defense services being needed.

The tour guides from the Church of Latter Day Saints who guided us around their Head Quarters in Salt Lake City, and the numerous people who devote their lives to this religion.

The teddy bear lady, in South Dakota who owns more Teddy bears than the populations of Custer, Keystone, and Hill City combined. She simply collects because it makes her happy.

Theodore from the Orthodox Church in Chicago. He talked to us about the history of the church for so long that I stopped listening and starting thinking about how passionate he was. We interrupted him and started asking him questions and we had to be the ones to break off the conversation.

Mida from the Greenfield Village at the Henry Ford Museum. Seeing her portray a black woman from the 19th century made rethink what it means to be a black American.

Mr. Folk from the Toledo Arts Commission. Seeing how his passion for art has opened doors for him, and how it has opened so many doors for so many local artists in Toledo gives me hope as an artist. It’s possible to be successful and not necessarily sell out.

Mandy Gonzalez and the Cast of In the Heights demonstrated how to use art in a way that motivates social thought as well as social change.

Pete the Clown at the market in Portland. This guy with a college degree was dressed up like clown and making balloon animals, and he was doing to raise money –not for himself –but for a Non-Profit Organization called Activated Ministries.

Dietrich from the Underground Seattle tour. I’m not sure if he was passionate, but he was a very unique person and also very bright. His knowledge base on the history of Seattle was so in depth that it was clear that he wasn’t just regurgitating a manual that memorized a couple of years ago.

The people at the Mission Year House in Philadelphia. I can’t help but admire how much they have sacrificed of themselves to give back to the community that they are in. I think that the organization’s goal to combine spiritual development with social change is something that even most churches aren’t really doing.

Ken Spring, Andi Stepnick, Heather Gillespie, Emily Headrick, Chris Speed, Rashina Bhula, Jenny Kilen, Pierce Greenberg, Emma Shouse, Elizabeth Cairnes and Shirah Eden Foy. These people are so passionate. They are all very different and care about different things but they care about something.

I wondered for a while if passion was part of what it meant to be an American. Then I realized that there are so many other people from other countries who are passionate. But I still think that Americans may have an elevated level of passion. I can’t think of any other place in the world where you can be passionate about anything that you want. Whether it be duct tape or race cars, I don’t think there is such a place outside of America. These passions may even conflict sometimes, but at the end of the day I wonder if that’s the beauty of passion still. Is it because we’re allowed to have conflicting passions, that in a strange sense it unites us? As I continue to decipher what it means to be an American this idea of passion is definitely going to stay on the radar.

Beyond Capitol Hill

I think that thus far, Washington DC has been the most unique city that I have encountered on this trip. We were there for three days, and I think that everyday I grew to appreciate it more and more.

It started as we were heading towards the metro on day one. As soon as we hit the escalator I was immediately interested. Going down I couldn’t help but notice how different this metro subway was from every other subway that I had seen thus far. The main thing is that it was spacious. Some subways are crafted in a way that they cause you to feel claustrophobic, but I didn’t get that feeling with this subway and neither did anyone else. Its architecture was also interesting in that it makes the subway look more like a space station, in my opinion, than a subway. All the subways in DC are composed of dome shaped concrete ceilings that stretch from one side of the floor to the other side. The concrete is molded into a repetitive design that continues for the entire length of the subway station. This is part of the reason why people don’t feel claustrophobic, because the lack of separation between walls and ceilings adds more space.

Besides the architecture, the other the thing about subway that interested me was how clean it was. Every other subway that I’ve been on (San Francisco, Chicago, New York, and Philadelphia) has been littered with trash and advertising. I didn’t see that so much in DC though. There definitely wasn’t any trash lying around anywhere. And there may have been a few sporadic ads, but I definitely didn’t feel as if I was being assaulted with advertising like I did in New York. Not only was the subway clean but it was also efficient. I haven’t had a bad subway experience on this trip yet, but I think that the DC Metro’s system is a little more effective most because our group never second guessed which train we needed to take, where it may not have been as clear in other cities for some.

Another thing that I enjoyed about DC was its level of diversity. As I walked down the street I could see people representing many different cultures and even sub cultures. When I found out later that DC was the third most diverse city in the country, I thought that it made sense. As our nation’s capital, housing embassies for countries around the world, you would expect to see people from foreign countries but I saw several different types of people who were US citizens as well. This was similar to the diversity that I saw in LA and Chicago, but different in that there seemed to be a little more of a unity in diversity. Maybe the ideal of E Pluribus Unum is just stronger in DC…

Along with this thought of diversity, as I walked around DC on Saturday, I kept thinking about this interesting juxtaposition that was present in DC. I think that most people would expect DC to be just Capitol Hill, but I would say it has a lot more to offer than just a couple of stuffy bureaucrats’ offices. The Adams Morgan area was an interesting part of town, because I saw a lot of young people mixed with families from the zoo. Again, I was walking through I was happy to see different types of people milling about. Not just black, or white, or academic or bohemian, but several types of people. Walking through, it seemed like this might be one of DC’s night spots because there were so many bars in the area. But there’s more to this area than that even, because if you travel a block down from the main streets you can find some interesting blocks of homes with regular people just trying to live regular lives.


Then there’s the U Street district of DC to think about as well. This area is historically known for being the “it” scene among the black community since the Harlem Renaissance. As of late, it’s become the place to be for everyone not just blacks. I was curious to see what the area looked like, and I was surprised to see that it had been kept up fairly well. I was expecting the area to be either extremely impoverished or extremely gentrified, and to my surprise it was neither. The area looked great and it was clear that the black presence in the community had not left. I think that this is one of the first communities that I’ve seen on this trip to accomplish this task.

Interspersed within these two areas and others are the University communities like George Washington University, American University, Georgetown University, Howard University, and the University of the District of Columbia to name a few. Each of these schools has different things to offer its students and in turn different things to offer the city as a whole. And to add more to the variety that’s already there, the town of Alexandria, VA isn’t too far from the DC area either. By simply taking the yellow line to King Street you are within minutes of the old town that was one of the oldest settlements in Americas. As you walk through the streets you get that feeling of nostalgia, but it is also clear that commercialism has taken the land and converted it from a community to a commodity. But sociology to the side, it seems like a great place to come and get away from the noise of the city for a couple of hours. But overall DC has a lot of great getaways. It seems like there are little gems all over the city for people to find.

I think that some of DC’s uniqueness may have something to do with its physical placement in the United States. Sitting with Elizabeth on the subway, we began to discuss this and it occurred to me then that DC is a northern metropolitan in the south. It sounds ridiculous at first but it makes sense if you think about it. Part of the reason why our nation’s capitol was placed where it is was because of the fact that it’s such a neutral territory between the northern and southern states. So I think it’s for that reason that DC residents get the best of both worlds in a sense. DC has its northern traits in that it is busy, diverse, and fairly progressive. And it also has its southern traits in its classic community atmosphere, friendly residents and warm weather. I think that this creates a great combination for an awesome place to live, and DC is officially on “my list.”

This assumption may not be true at all, but that was just the impression that I got in the three days that I was there. It could be that I need to go back and experience it more, in order to really grasp what DC is all about. And if that is the case, then I would have no problem with that because I enjoyed my time there.

Crack ain't always Wack!

Philadelphia, just like Boston, is a city that has a lot of history. It’s one of the bigger cities that played a big role in the American. Today I got a chance to look at to get closer look a Philly and its history, and I was pretty impressed.

Our day started with an appointment with the Liberty Bell. As we were in line heading inside the museum I noticed that the rangers were very adamant about order. I overheard on of them asking a patron in line to make sure they spit out their gum and then I heard someone in our group whisper, “What are they gonna do? Patch up the Liberty Bell?” Although I laughed, I couldn’t help but see the truth in what they were saying as well. Was it really that serious? I mean it’s just a bell right? And why hasn’t anyone patched up that crack yet?



But after finally looking at the Liberty Bell, my thoughts changed fairly quickly. My immediate thought about the Liberty Bell was that of history, and how much the liberty Bell was an embodiment of American history. Looking at it, I think that the majority of the Bell represents the rich, interesting history that America has, but the crack represents the dark side of American History. It represents the parts of our history that we aren’t too keen on sharing, but are still a part of our history.


And the thing about the Liberty Bell is that part of its value is in the crack. People appreciate the bell more because of its crack, not less. I think there’s lesson about honesty to be learned here. What if America did that? What if our country was honest about the things that make it seem not so attractive? How much more would the world and even some of our own citizens appreciate our country? Let’s be honest, America is not the perfect country and probably never will be, so why try to pretend?


But this isn’t even just a global issue, it’s personal as well. What if everyone was willing to embrace their faults rather than try to hide them? I can’t help but wonder how much better off the country would be if we all were honest with our selves. But unfortunately we live in a society where perfection is the goal; despite the fact that one of our oldest historical icons has an obvious imperfection. All I can say is look at the Bell, show your cracks, and be liberated!

Half sleep thoughts on NYC

On our last night in New York City I laid in my cozy coffin- like bunk and thought about the past couple days that I had just experienced. It was much more amazing that I think I had planned on it being. Truth is we didn’t get to see as much as one might think. New York City is so big that it’s impossible to explore everything in a week let alone three days. With that being said I would like to think that we spent our time exploring some quality parts of NYC. That night as I lay in bed, I tried to think about what my favorite experience was from the past three days.

I thought about Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty which we did that Sunday morning. After experiencing Mt. Rushmore and not really enjoying it, I wasn’t expecting to enjoy Lady Liberty, but I did. I was honestly expecting it to be a bit larger than what it was, but I was ultimately pleased. I think that for me the difference between the Statue of Liberty and Mt. Rushmore is that the Statue is more of representation of freedom and liberty and its sole purpose is to honor that freedom that America was founded upon, while Mt. Rushmore is more about honoring specific people. It seems like a difference between the manifestation and the ideal. Liberty is the ideal that America is constantly striving for, and Mt. Rushmore is a marker of a temporary manifestation of that liberty. This manifestation is not complete in that it doesn’t fully represent the ideal, so we need to continually evolve and move forward, and I think that the statue of liberty does a much better job in conveying that thought. But I decided that the statue wasn’t my favorite experience.

Neither was Ellis Island, although I thought it very interesting to get a taste of what that experience was like. As we approached the tiny island on the ferry, I couldn’t help but think about how immigrating to America must have been such a gamble. I thought about the countless number of boats that brought over hopefuls from Italy, Poland, or China and I wondered what dictated their success? What would determine whether they would share a fate similar to that of Jurgis from Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle or Tateh from E.L. Doctorow’s Ragtime? Given these are fictional characters I think that they represent the dichotomy of immigrant success in America very well. From there I started to think about other people, my own people who also came to America on a boat, but very different boat, and completely against their will. I couldn’t help but wonder what it must have been like to be on a similarly sized boat, but with 5 times more people surrounding each other without a glimpse of sunlight for days. From there I started to wonder why there is such a range of success even within the black community. How does one black male from Cabrini Green grow up to become a successful doctor, while another black male from that same neighborhood thrust into a lifetime of crime? Some may say that it’s about personal choices, but I would argue that there are other factors to take into consideration as well. I’m just not sure what they are yet. And while Ellis Island stimulated me mentally for a moment, it wasn’t my favorite experience either.

I also thought about some of the street performances that I ran into while in the city. I don’t know many people who like to watch street performances, but I do. What I think I enjoy so much about street performance is that despite the fact that it is so raw there is still of suspension of disbelief going present in the audience. As soon you see a street performance taking place, it automatically draws your attention, and although you know that they just want your money you still go and watch. This is similar to theatre and film where spectators know that what they are watching isn’t reality and they still allow themselves to become emotionally invested. The funny thing is that many street performers—like the one of the groups I watched in Battery Park—will say things in their routine like “We need your money,” and even then people won’t leave, and in fact will give money when they didn’t plan on it. Why? Because of the charm? The skill? The performance overall? Or is it just the fact you can relate to the performers on a basic human level and see the need that they may have. For me it’s a mixture of the four. And as fascinating as I find street performance to be, it still wasn’t my favorite experience.

Neither was Central Park, the Subway or Times Square. However, all of these were great experiences. I loved Central Park because it was diverse. Not only was there a diverse group of people present, but there was also a wide variety of activities for this diverse group of people to engage in like Summer Stage concert, the skate party full of random people, the wedding photo shoot, and several other options including hanging out in the shade with someone “special.” All of this was happening at once in the same park, and no body was in anybody else’s way. I think that Dr. Stepnick summed up Central Park best when she said “You can be whoever you want to be here, and no one will judge you.”

Riding the subway ended up being enjoyable for me as well. I say “ended up,” because my first day on the subway was overwhelming. Even as someone coming to New York with some years of subway experience, I had no clue of what to do or where to go. But by the third day, I felt completely comfortable hopping on the Blue 1 heading to Greenwich Village or the Orange B to get from lower Manhattan to Central Park. And although being able to get around made the Big Apple seem a little easier to bite into, but there was more at the core of my feelings towards New York.

For a second I thought it may have been Times Square. The lure of the bright lights is definitely enough to make someone rethink its significance. With advertisements for everything from Yahoo! and Bubba Gump Shrimp Company to LG, HSBC and the New York Police Department placed practically in front of MTV studios, you get a clear picture of what apparently gets people’s attention. And there are so many people walking around that it really does feel like the center of the universe sometimes. It’s interesting because people have turned Times Square into such an icon for New York City and American Pop Culture that it felt very familiar to me, although I had never been there before. And as I familiar as it felt, there was still no moment of “Ah” for me in NYC yet. I wasn’t sure if I was just getting sleepy or if I just couldn’t remember this “moment” that I was sure had passed.

That was until I remembered walking down a street called Broadway on Wednesday night headed for the Richard Rodgers Theatre with tickets to see In the Heights. Emily and I had lucked up on rush tickets earlier that day and I was thrilled about it. As I lay in the bed that night I thought about why the show was so important to me and I came up with a couple reasons. As an actor seeing my first Broadway show is important, but even if it was my twelfth it would have been equally as important because of what it represents. I think that Broadway serves as a manifestation of the American Dream for performers. You get a glimpse of the possibility and you work and work until you make that possibility a reality. It happens for some and doesn’t happen for others, but that doesn’t keep most from trying. It seems like the beauty is more in the trying than the actual accomplishment.

Looking at in the Heights specifically I think that the show embodies a large part of the New York way of life. There’s mention of small communities within boroughs, immigration, Hip Hop culture, Latin culture, and the tragedy and triumph of life in the inner city. Looking at the show through a sociological lens, it examines topics like: the economy, gentrification, brain drain, immigration, education, racism, and even cultural identity. It’s funny because Emily and I didn’t even have real seats. We stood in the back of the first upper level, which was slightly unfortunate because the top half of the set was cut from our line of vision by the next balcony above us. I thought it was so symbolic that this would occur in my first Broadway and my first New York experience because I didn’t get to see the whole picture as far as the show is concerned, and I didn’t get to see the whole picture of New York or Broadway. As I mentioned earlier, it’s like a glimpse of something better to aspire to.

And I would say that as an artist In the Heights serves as a great story and overall piece of art to aspire to emulate. I say that because it is a clear example of what I believe to be the one of the highest achievements in art: having such a grasp on a culture that you can then create art that affects that culture. With his story about life in Washington Heights, I think that Lin-Manuel Miranda is doing just that: doing his best to make a change. It reminds me of how possible change is; both through one’s art and also in one’s own life.

And once I finally came to some closure about my time spent in NYC, what impacted me and in what ways I was at peace. So I closed my curtain to my bunk, turned off my light, took a deep breath, closed my eyes and said farewell to the never-sleeping city, if only for just a season.

It comes in strange places...

While in Detroit, our group went to the Henry Ford Museum, and we got to see a lot of interesting exhibits, but one of my favorite parts was in Greenfield Village. It was basically a town full of recreated houses and buildings from the earlier parts of American History. It was inside the town that I encountered the Mattox family Home, a recreated home that was once owned by a family of freed slaves. It was there that I met Mida, one of the guides for that particular site. She was obviously very passionate about what she did, because she had created a complete character in order to help recreate the Mattox family values.

Dressed in the traditional clothes of the time, Mida spoke and acted as if she was from the 19th century in order to bring the visitors back to that time. I was there and I felt so comfortable. After she shared some information on the history of the Mattox family, and what life was like for them as freed slaves, I stayed behind to talk to her a little more. When I asked her what it meant to be an American, she mentioned struggle, which I thought was interesting. That’s a part of the American identity –especially the African American identity—that I think people forget about. The poem that follows was inspired by her words on struggle and perseverance:

Sometimes it seems like it just don’t end.
Who wants to play a game that’s impossible to win?
Tired of fighting,
Tired of crying,
And on the flipside I ain’t keen on dying neither.

So I gotta be strong, even when I feel weak.
I gotta keep going, when I don’t feel like moving.
Situations don’t matter; it’s about peace of mind.

So I’ll struggle to reach my goal
that’s clear in my sight,
cause something inside keeps telling me,
that it’s worth the endurance.

Mall of America?

The United States economy isn’t doing so hot. Okay we know this, but there isn’t as much evidence as you would think. In going on this trip, I was expecting to find several traces of a struggling economy, but of all the places to see the effects of that, I was not expecting it to be the Mall of America.

For those who are unfamiliar, the Mall of America is a GIANT mall located in the Twin cities area. It has four floors, over twenty thousand parking spaces, and over five hundred stores inside of it. Supposedly it’s one of the most visited places in the United States. But what do you when the visitors don’t buy anything?

As I walked around the block of retail, I couldn’t help but notice that so many retail shops were having huge sales, sometimes even up to seventy percent off: Macy’s, Express, Gap, H&M, Lacoste, and Guess. At first, I couldn’t help but think how I might be able to profit from this situation so I began to look around with more interest as I passed these stores, and that’s when I noticed that I wasn’t passing much else. There weren’t that many people there in the mall. Granted it was a Thursday afternoon, but I wasn’t in any regular mall. I was in the Mall of America; but apparently close to being by myself.

I wanted to make sure that I wasn’t just imagining things and that the Mall’s patronage was in fact sparse, so I decided to ask someone who knew. I walked inside the Gap and ran upon Donald, who was more than available to talk, since there were no other customers in the store.

He confirmed my thoughts for me about the Mall. It had been slow for a while. “Usually, the weekends are better,” he explained, “but, even then there aren’t as many people.” Donald assured me that it was probably because of the economy, like I suspected. He went on to explain that most of the Mall’s best customers haven’t even been Americans. Lately European and Asian tourists have been making the most purchases. And that’s actually understandable, given the fact that it is such a well known Mall. For the sake of the economy I was grateful for the tourists who were coming and beating me to sales at Express and H&M because it was helping us.

But then I began to think about all of the other local malls that aren’t as famous around the world. How many tourists were coming to Southlake, River Gate, Tower Center, or Mayfair Mall to buy items? It seems like for every one tourist who makes a purchase at the Mall of America there are three more American citizens who aren’t making purchases in ordinary malls across the country. That’s not a very good ratio. Something had to be done. All of a sudden I felt compelled to do something, in the Mall of America. I felt compelled to shop; not for my own profit but for the benefit of the country and the country’s economy.

So I looked around for the lucky store in which I would buy from: Gap, Express, Foot Locker, Lids, Ecko Unltd, Old Navy, Best Buy, Foot Action, Banana Republic…nothing. I wasn’t really finding anything that stuck out for me. There were so many options to choose from that I couldn’t choose one. It was like I was at a six street intersection, and I had no clue of what I was going to do. I was on sensory overload, and I couldn’t take it. Never before had I felt so conflicted inside such an institution of business. So I stood in the middle of the mall for about ten minutes trying to come to a decision.

That was when I found a compromise between what I wanted and what my country needed. With all of the resolve possible I took several steps west, without really thinking about where I was headed. Small steps for me, and probably even smaller steps for the economy, but they were still steps. I don’t remember what happened next. It all happened so fast, that it’s hard to recall. The next thing I knew I was standing outside of the Mall of America, sipping on the biggest smoothie that the Food Court had to offer, with no other bags in hand.

The fact is, I could have spent a lot more money in another store, but that would have been a little irresponsible. I mean after all, the economy isn’t in the best shape right now...That smoothie was what was best for me and my country, so I couldn’t help but feel like a hero as I sucked it down in the cool shade, watching foreign tourists exit the Mall beside me with their hands full of bags. Again I was grateful for them and their purchases, but I also knew that my country was grateful for me. Had patriotism ever tasted so sweet? I’m not sure at all really.

Chicago-Rediscovering Home

Most people don’t get the opportunity to visit their homes. I mean really, how can one be a stranger to a place that you already know? It’s hard to be a visitor in the place that you live. However it’s not impossible, because I can say that I was blessed with the chance to see my hometown of Chicago from the perspective of a visitor several days ago. Traveling with my class across the city put me in place where I couldn’t help but look at Chicago with new eyes. Looking back on the time spent there, I think that Charles Dickens put it best when he said: “Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.” As I traveled throughout the Windy City with my group, introducing them to places that I been introduced to long ago, I kept noticing strange feelings of pride bubble up inside me. These were feelings that I never knew that I had before and I wondered where they had come from.

Being at the Taste of Chicago reminded me of summers in the past where my whole family would travel downtown in order to taste the food that vendors were offering. But it was never just about the food for us, or any other family really. We went for an adventure, and more importantly we just went to celebrate the summer, because that’s what summer in Chicago is about: going out, seeing people, having fun, and enjoying the weather. I think that one of the many great things that Chicago offers is summer festivals. Whether it’s the Taste, the Chicago Arabesque festival, the African Street festival, Pride Fest, or Lollapalooza, there are always several opportunities for the diverse groups of people in Chicago to mix and mingle. The fact that Chicago is even diverse satisfies me on a certain level, but to see Haitians, Koreans, Puerto Ricans, Ukrainians, Indians, and other races sharing the same space in peace touches me in a way that I feel is rare to Chicago.


Also after being away from the festival for a couple of years I finally began to realize the size of The Taste: it’s not as big as I once thought it was at all. Before, the idea of being at the Taste was very overwhelming because of the size and the high volume of people. But the other day as I got to the end on one side and realized that I hadn’t been walking for very long it occurred to me that either the festival was shrinking or I was growing. And since the Taste has taken up the same amount of space for years, I quickly decided that I was growing. Not growing out of The Taste, but more like finally growing into the Taste.

The Sky Deck experience at Sears Tower was one thing in Chicago that I don’t think I had ever fully grown into. Before Friday, my last visit to the Sky Deck was at the age of four. I had almost no memory of what it was like or what to expect, so when our elevator doors opened to the deck, I was just as excited as my peers to see what lay before us, similar to the sweetness of children to running to open a wonderfully wrapped gift on Christmas morning. I was amazed to see the entire city when I approached the window. It seemed just like the view that I would normally see from an airplane while departing from or arriving to Chicago, except the view wasn’t going anywhere. I could stand in one spot and stare in into the city night for as I wanted to, so I did. The network of lights seemed to go on forever, as if Chicago was the heart of the United States and the lights fanned out into the periphery like blood vessels.

Looking out, I tried to identify as many buildings and areas as possible just to prove that I could; but to a certain degree the night was all encompassing. And more importantly the detail and the distinctions between neighborhoods also seemed to fade. There was no Hyde Park or Wicker Park, there was just Chicago, and it was huge. As I watched the excitement on my classmates faces I felt that same excitement growing inside myself as well. My visitors were appreciating my city, which in turn made me look at my city with greater appreciation.





As the day drew to a close on our second day, a part of our group finally made it to Millenium Park, and in turn got to make contact with “The Bean.” I thought it was interesting that everyone else’s natural reaction was to approach it, while I stood back and I admired from a far as I usually did. But, because we were together I felt obligated to draw in closer with the rest of my group. Now when I first I saw The Bean around the time that it made it’s premier I obviously stood closer to it, but as I got used to seeing it I wouldn’t pay that much attention to it; which is why this particular occasion was so special, because I was closer than I had been in a while.

We got so close that I could see my reflection clearly in the sculpture and it was nice. Without even thinking about it, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and took a picture of my reflection. Then I looked around and saw that Chris, and several other people not in my group were taking pictures as well. Some probably were tourists but some were also Chicago natives who were just admiring the beauty of The Bean and trying to capture the day. I guess that’s what I was doing too.

Chris, Rashina, Elizabeth and I stood there for a talking. Soon we were sitting right next to The Bean still talking about our time in Chicago, and after a while we were laying on the concrete. I had never done this before that day and I was amazed at how comforting it was to do it. I opened my eyes and found myself staring back, as the reflective Bean was positioned above me. I laid there for a while, looking at myself and my surroundings and felt a peace that I had never considered I’d find in such a heavily populated area.

I noticed the several groups of friends and families that were hanging around the Bean, and even though we all were separated I couldn’t help but feel connected to them. Connected to the three Hyde Park girls taking a picture after an evening at the taste; connected to the three cubs fans who seemed to have just left some sports bar where they were watching the game; connected to the Hispanic family composed of a mother and two grown sons posing for a picture; connected to the seven ladies dressed in black who seemed to be in the midst of a bachelorette party for the one dressed in hot pink; connected to the little girl dragging her father towards the Lake front. It had never occurred to me that something as simple as a piece of art in a five year-old park could connect so many different people. And again I felt that glimmer of pride begin to shine through my eyes.

Looking back on those two days I can find numerous moments when I felt more pride for my city than ever before. There were moments of nostalgia while riding the CTA and Metra trains; there were moments of inspiration while exploring the Art Institute; there were moments of questioning while walking through the diverse neighborhoods; there were moments of joy while eating Giordano’s Chicago style pizza and watching the Sox beat the Cubs on television; they were moments of pure comfort talking to my family on the phone, knowing that I was physically closer to them than I had been in weeks; there were moments of excitement as I saw the sun setting in the far west. All of these moments evoked feelings in me that I wasn’t even aware of and I think that indescribable feeling is part of what Dickens is referring to when he tries to describe home, because it is unexplainable. With this trip, I’ve been to several different cities and I can truly say that I haven’t found one like Chicago yet. This experience has helped me to rediscover home and more importantly it’s helped me to rediscover the pride that I already had for home.

And over the next few days as I continue to process this pride, and think about what it means to be a Chicagoan, as well as an American, the lyrics from Kanye West’s “Homecoming” keep coming to my mind:


Every interview I'm representin you making you proud

Reach for the stars so if you fall you land on a cloud

Jump in the crowd, spark you lighters, wave em around,

And if you don't know by now, I'm talkin bout Chi town

Mt. Rushmore?

I’m learning that patriotism is a funny thing to think about. I think that it’s funny because you never know what situation will or won’t make you feel patriotic. For some it may be paying taxes or serving in the Armed Forces, or hearing the recording of Whitney Houston singing the National Anthem on the Radio and still for some it may be witnessing the enormity of Mt. Rushmore. For me personally, there is almost nothing about Mt. Rushmore that evokes a spirit of patriotism. I would almost venture to say that Mt. Rushmore made me feel the most unpatriotic that I’ve ever felt.
Driving through the countryside heading to the monument was awesome—for a while. It was good until we got to the town right in front of Mt. Rushmore and I was slapped in the face with commercialism. We went from driving down a road with hills and grass on both sides to driving down a street with “cute little shops” positioned all around us. It was a complete and utter atrocious MESS. Initially I was annoyed that people would have the moxie to try and make money off of the fore fathers sacred spot. This was before the mountain was actually in my view and I had still some image or ideal of what my experience would be and what my reaction to the mountain would be at first glance. But then I saw it, and all of that went away almost instantly.
It was a mountain. Nothing more or less. I wasn’t really expecting it to be anything more than that but I have to admit, I was disappointed to see a simple mountain with carvings before me. But trying to be the ideal American citizen I checked those thoughts and settled on the idea that maybe I just needed to be up closer. So I waited to form an opinion. I waited for our van to pass through the main gate after paying ten dollars to park for a twenty minute visit; I waited for our divided group to join right in front of the park; I waited for the correspondent from the Today Show to arrive and set up her paraphernalia; I waited for the green light from my professor to even enter the park; I even waited to pass through the anteroom lined with four sided columns holding a different state flag on each side and an inscription below the flag with each state’s name, place in the order of admission, and year that it was admitted into the United States. I felt a small glimmer of pride as I passed the Illinois flag, and hoped it would carry over to the “Big Guys,” but it didn’t.
There was no excuse either. There was nothing else (besides a few hundred feet of air) standing in my way. There was no type of interference between me and Rushmore and yet I still felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.
I quickly went to check myself again thinking that maybe I don’t really know how to appreciate anything other than a city, especially something so rural as Mount Rushmore…But then I began to recall my time yesterday, rafting in the Yellowstone River, and the excitement that I felt as I tried my hardest to man-handle those rapids; and the day before in Glacier Park admiring the beauty of the Rockies for just a moment even through the wet and the cold; and my time spent in the abundance of the Redwood Forest completely humbled by the beauty and timelessness of each tree; and my hike in the Grand Canyon along with the feeling of accomplishment that I felt when I reached the top. I realized that I was more than able to appreciate nature, and that there’s was nothing wrong with me. There was something wrong with this National Park.
The issue for me wasn’t with the Mountain itself, just like my issue wasn’t with the forefathers. My issue was with the idea of posting their dead faces on a mountain. Wasn’t it beautiful enough before? Why is George Washington’s face necessary for the side of any mountain? Because he was our first president? That means absolutely nothing. I think that Mt. Rushmore is a prime example of the negative aspects of American culture that people hate so much: this feeling of self entitlement. Who said it was okay to destroy this mountain in order to honor some dead guys? I understand that they did a lot for our country and I appreciate it (although as a black man, I’m more than comfortable saying that only one of them really did anything for me) but they do not deserve to be idolized in such a way. No one does. I’m sure that some would say that we idolize some celebrities, but Graceland, Neverland, and every other celebrity shrine combined do not match Mt. Rushmore. Unlike some of those shrines, Mt. Rushmore will be around for a very long time. Couldn’t we have just stuck to passing down the American Legacy through the history books?
I think that Joni Mitchell said it best in “Big Yellow Taxi,” when she said,
They paved paradise and put a parking lot
That they did Joni, that they did…