I think for America to be a truly great nation, we have to get over our self concept of being a great nation. Every dark chapter in our history can be traced to acts created out of hubris. When we stop trying to make the world in our own image and start looking in the mirror at what our image truly is, then we can live up to our ideals.
— John Donoghue, assistant professor of history at Loyola University in Chicago
Pittsburgh resident Sam Toma has a PhD in Physics and Chemistry. He moved to the United States from Baghdad when he was 16 and has an interesting take on what it means to be American:
"I think the heart of being American is how fast you get over your ethnicity. The legal definition of an American is very simple. It's who you pledge your allegiance to. Even if it's not in writing, it's a contract.
To me, the triumph of that was Barack Obama, because we overlooked his race. The hallmark of being American is the amalgamation of all cultures. These are huge jumps that are not easily achieved in other countries."
Amish will not pose for photos (it's considered vanity), and though they frequent the same stores and parks and festivals as non-Amish do, they keep pretty much to themselves.
They
refer to non-Amish as "the English," actually.
Near the town of Killbuck, a furniture craftsman
named Arthur, who has four young children, came up to me and asked if I needed help with anything. Then he got a barrage of
questions! He was very matter-of-fact and open to talking with me, though.
Arthur says Amish are generally born into the lifestyle, and it is just
that — a chosen way of life. Their refusal to use electricity is a way
to prevent things from getting too hectic, he says.
Life is simpler, yes, but not easy. Arthur advertises his business in
print publications and makes all his contacts by land line. There is no
air conditioning in his work shop. He uses an air pump for plumbing.
His dad makes buggies, and he drives one like all the other Amish do.
But if he needs to go a long distance, he'll pay for a car and driver.
"I still have to make a living, so it is still the rat race," he says.
"But I know when I go home, there won't be any calls. No one would
expect to get a hold of me. I get to leave it behind."
I think I can relate a bit with my present life – no
electricity most of the time and there have been stretches of days with out
phone or Internet.
Life is tougher, but I value the clarity that comes from
simplicity. In fact, I associate the simplicity with freedom.
And I will say, the Amish are pretty non-judgmental toward a
blue-haired girl. In a store full of Ohioans casting suspicious glances, it was an Amish woman
in a plain blue smock and a bonnet who looked me directly in the eyes and smiled warmly. She's probably used to
being stared at, too.
The snapshots below are of an Amish boy herding his family's cows across a rural road near Holmesville, and, in town, two Amish girls watching some dunk tank action at a local festival, along with their "English" peers.
Guess what other famous love of mine is from Indiana?
At the Fairmount Historical Musuem I browsed a mind blowing display of James Dean's personal belongings, which included school report cards, clothing, letters, and art work, along with awards, contracts and other memorabilia.
I talked to people who knew his family. They told me great stories about Dean's high school past times, interests and personality. He was never really a rebel, like Hollywood made him out to be. In fact, Dean was an only child who lost his mother to breast cancer when he was nine. He was raised for the most part by relatives. He grew up a sensitive, artistic soul, who would visit Fairmount from Hollywood and act no different toward friends and family than before.
He was killed in a car crash at the age of 24.
Here's a letter Dean wrote to cousin Marcus Winslow, who is 12 years his junior. Dean was in his early twenties at the time and was working in New York. The letter was regarding some drawings Winslow had sent him and reflects Dean's Quaker beliefs.
Clicking on the photo will open it in a separate window, where it should be large enough to read.
It's interesting there is so much more left of James Dean's life in Fairmount than there is in Lafayette of either Shannon Hoon or Axl Rose, though they were born much later.
Fairmont, population 3,000, is still a small town.
"Around here you walk up and down the street and people say hello to you and you answer them back," says museum volunteer Phil Zeigler (right), a U.S. Navy veteran.
"'Happy days' are gone, but it is still very Americana," fellow volunteer and Army veteran Mike Davis (left), 67, who attended high school with Marcus Winslow, concurs. "People are still happy and friendly."
Lexington contains a weird mix of cultures and history. There are two large universities in town, but it doesn't feel especially young or urban. There are blatantly poor neighborhoods within walking distance of glass skyscrapers and cemeteries with gravestones from the Revolutionary War era.
There's a new courthouse complex, with a fountain, where this 5-year-old boy escaped the heat one August day and an old courthouse near a district called Cheapside, where his ancestors may have been sold as slaves.
"It's a very conservative culture," says Janet Scott, a theater producer who moved to the city in 2001 from Manhattan.
"It's the last place I'd ever thought I'd be," she tells me.
"But slowing down I found to be a healthy problem. It takes a long time not to get pissed off at the grocery store in line."
Horses are a big deal here, too, of course, and this life size sculpture at Thoroughbred Park was probably the highlight of the city for me:
She coasts up to us at 1:30 a.m., hair and smile topsy turvy, blinking blue sunglasses atop her head.
"What's happenin' dudes?"
"Not much," we reply. "You?"
"I'm fucking starving," she says. Then quickly adds: "I have five dollars, though."
"Hey, can I wear your hat?" she asks one of us. "I don't have lice or anything."
She takes the hat and hands over her sunglasses.
Her name tonight is Sera Tonin. Or maybe it's Augustine. She is 93. Well, 23, actually.
Her mom was a fairy, she says. So I guess that makes her one, too. A lost little Nashville fairy with her light blinking out as she flits from the drug house she's staying at to this dive bar where she may or may not be allowed in.
She's got some crazy dance moves, this bony girl — more fragile each time you see her, like a bird stripped of its feathers.
She'll tell you stories of being gang raped like a recount of a trip to the grocery store.
"I had a baby last year. I didn't eat or go to the doctor or anything the whole time." I don't know how she was OK. And it was really quick, too. Only like a half an hour."
"What happened then?"
"My sister stole her."
She wants to go to school for sociology and get her teeth fixed so the cavity-induced headaches will stop.
"I'm so tired of this caveman shit," she says.
"I can't wait to be the best philosopher there is. If I can make it to school, I can meet some like minds."
"If you get a bunch of people doing opiates that's kind of like a think tank," she adds, then laughs. "Everyone forgets everything."
The bar won't let her in tonight.
"Let's go in together," she suggests. "You can say I'm your best friend."
But it's already past last call. We head for our cars and she coasts into the night.
"I grew up in a really small town (in Tennessee) and there were only two black people. I was raised to think the inner city was a dirty place and black people were the reason for welfare and all that. And I realize now that that isn't true. I've dated black girls. I wonder what would happen if I took a black girl home for Christmas."
"…I visited New York and everyone was rude. I didn't know what to think. Then I realized it was my accent and everyone perceived me as stupid. One guy told me, 'When I first met you, I thought you were retarded,' (laughs). Then we talked about politics and it was OK."
— Elliott Graves, 22, an airplane mechanic, Macintosh camera technician and business student at Belmont University in Nashville
Nashville is the other Hollywood. The musical one.
And I met quite a few interesting musicians, here.
Charlie Rauh, 24, left, and Joseph Hudson, 32, right, play a number of different instruments together and separately.
Joseph plays or sings in six steady gigs, holds down a part-time job at a library, does some film work and is training to be a wrestler.
"I think improvised music is going to have its heyday in Nashville because I can't recall a time in Nashville's history where that's been popular and I just see more and more manifestations of that," says Hudson.
Rauh thinks there is a unique Nashville approach to improvised music, too.
"A lot of it in other cities is usually loud and abrasive and for some
reason the focus of music from Nashville is more melodic and lush."
"The energy is mostly concentrated on Indie rock, now," says Rauh.
He adds: "There is a lot of apathy. A lot of people are making good music but because they don't think people give a fuck, they don't do anything. They don't try to book shows. They wait for something to come to them, when they're doing something that requires self-motivation.
He adds: "A lot of these people are already self-defeated and so their music is self-defeated."
He recalls moving to Nashville 2 12 years ago and walking out of a cafe with is guitar. "And some older guy walked past and said, 'Good luck, buddy. I've been here 10 years.'
Says Rauh: "Nashville is like a graveyard of artists. There are so many people who came here to make it big and didn't."
He continues: "I see Nashville as (providing) endless opportunities, because there are so many good studios and sound masters."
Enoch Porch, 27, above, has 'made it' — enough to make his living for several years playing in bands and touring for a major label. He still does music, but has eased off from the commercialized stuff for a bit to focus on other things, including managing this Italian market and eatery on the west side of town.
Porch says he was tired of all the posturing that touring with a major record label required.
"I like humble music," he says.
Anthony Gales joined the U.S. Army 20 years to the day before I met him in Parkin, Ark., Aug. 8.
Had he stayed in, he'd probably be retired now, instead of helping his uncle get a run down gas station back in business.
"My intention was to be a lifer," he says.
"We went to Panama and Saudi Arabia and then we went to Haiti, and I absolutely hated what we had to do over there. It was a 'keep the peace' mission, but basically we were just letting people starve to death… One of our directives was to not assist in any way. And there were all these children begging for food and dying around us."
He de-enlisted shortly after and embarked on a journey like mine through the U.S. and Mexico.
His advice for me: "Always call your parents when you're doing something like that." My mom put out a missing persons report on me. I found out when I was pulled over in Kansas.
In the tiny town of Calico Rock, Ark., population 1,000, Richard Allen owns one of the coolest second-hand stores I've been to. In fact, I tried to shield my eyes and walk past, but I was drawn in by the going-out-of-business sign, table full of Louis L'Amour books and a doe-eyed mannequin.
These were staring me down as soon as I walked in.
"Everyone who comes in here looks at those shoes," Allen tells me.
I think they were waiting for me, then.
I could walk down the aisle in a short white wedding dress in these shoes. Billy Idol for the soundtrack and everything.
I did pass up a lot of denim, leather, flannel and turquoise, though, so be proud of me.
Allen now lives in Viola, Ark, about 20 miles from Calico Rock.
"I used to live in Scottsbluff, Ariz. in the sixties. I
wish I knew then what I know now" about the demand for southwest
artifacts and Indian regalia, he says.
"I got addicted to turquoise, right along with tools and oil lamps. I used to have over 300 oil lamps.
I have 1,200 wooden planes, 600 tools and 800 pieces of cast iron… Wherever I go, I end up looking for stuff."