America
Constructive criticism appreciated!
My America
I.
We had been seeing each other around forever. Every time I even thought about a county fair, I'd catch a glimpse of America. Walking down the street, driving in the van, getting ice cream, all sorts of things. America attracted me, but I never thought we had a chance together. It always seemed like we were just too different, too similar, too at odds with each other. America was just another hopeless dream. Something left over from reading too much Jack Kerouac.
Then I bought a truck. An old truck. A truck with a lot of rust and one side painted black and the other red. I named him Whitman and christened him with stickers and said, "This is a good truck." Whitman - a Ford Ranger, an old one. 1988. Sometimes I wonder if America and I would have met if it had been a Dodge or a Subaru station wagon. America says of course we would have, but I'm not so sure. America is more judgemental than anyone (including America) would like to think. All the same, it happened.
I stopped at a gas station to feed Whitman's fuel consumption, and America told me I had a nice truck. I smiled in spite of myself and said "He's a good old truck." America and I went to a show together that night. America claimed to have had that plan before we met, but I'm not always sure. It was a punk show. America is all about punk rock, which made me laugh. America moshed like no one else. Stomping and pushing and shoving; all pointy elbows and knees. Some kids got a little hurt, not used to real anger in the pits. The band had some sort of carnal power over everyone. They reminded me of Fugazi, but comparing bands has become some sort of faux pas in the punk scenes. Don't ask me why, I just listen to the music.
America talked about musical theory to me and I nodded politely. America talked about war and I closed my eyes and hummed. America talked about soul and depth and compassion and I laughed out loud. When America asked me why, I just kept laughing, I couldn't answer. I only kept laughing because I sat there talking to America in the bright city night listening to these words of love and America speaking with such innocence. The innocence and the lack of hate hurt my heart in a comical way. It turns out America doesn't like the locals, but seemed pretty sure things were like this everywhere. We held hands and agreed with each other.
I took a deep breath and asked if America wanted a ride home. America looked at me with bare shoulders and sweaty skin, and told me there was no home to go to.
Now I held my breath and asked America to stay with me. America looked at me with a jacket over one shoulder and knobby knees poking through holes in jeans. America smiled, hair in eyes, and told me yes.
When we got to my apartment I apologized for the mess and turned on the lights. America stared at everything while I talked nervously. It's intimidating having America in your house when you've never even cared to get to know each other before. Every supposition was wrong, every generalization. Except maybe a few. America has always lived in Appalachia. When I asked why the answer was already in my heart. "This just feels like home." I took off America's shirt to look at the tattoos underneath. The preamble to the constitution in small neat letters across America's back. It figures.
Come sleep with me, America. Let's wrap the world between our bodies.
America's eyes hesitated, but the body came without a thought. America is full of heartbreak, but I didn't find that out until my own heart shattered.
II.
Waking up I saw America lying next me, huddled against my hip holding my stuffed animals against a bare chest. For a while I sat, and looked, and forgot that it was America. I mean, America. In my apartment. In my bed. Next to my body. Holding my stuffed animals.
"Stop drooling on my stuffed animals," I whispered, not believing it would break the sleep or the spell.
America sat up and looked at me, wiping drool from his mouth. America really isn't a morning person and I found that out the hard way. America was still looking at me as I felt around my bed for a shirt. Out of the corner of my eye I can see pale flesh moving faster than my eyes can follow. Then I'm on my back and my face is stinging like I got hit with a slap shot in street hockey. I can feel the handprint on my face. I can feel where the bruise will be purple and where it will be sickly green. America mutters something about not waking people up in the morning unless they ask to be and lays back down.
I watch America falling asleep and touch the puffiness in my cheek. Within minutes I can hear America's deep breathing and know that I'm the only one awake. I start to get up making as little noise and motion as possible but America grabs my wrist and holds on tight. Shit. America keeps the hold until I lay back down, curling our bodies together again. Tears burn my still stinging face, but I fall back asleep in America's protective hands.
I woke up with a hand print bruised into my cheek and the sound of America making pancakes in my kitchen. Groggy, uneasy, confused, I went to the kitchen.
America smiled so warmly, held my hand so tenderly, eyes so soft. America, are you the same person you were three hours ago?
America is still smiling at me and I am still confused. America could be my alcoholic husband, I think. America, please stop smiling at me. You make my heart ache and I don't even know you.
I hope you like French pancakes, America says. I stand tiptoe to put my head just below America's chin and push our bodies together. Smiling, even I forget what happened. I wonder if I dreamed it, and I know I must have, feeling America's arm around my waist, America's lips on my neck.
America you make the most delicious pancakes. Better than I ever do. And it's nice to eat like this, while holding hands under the table. You're the only person to make me breakfast without boasting first, I say. I'll bet you even make a good souffle. America just smiles shyly under long eyelashes.
America let's play dress-up, you and me. I have a whole closet full of personalities we can try on. Why don't we see what feels the most comfortable and then go out in public like that. No wait, let's just stay here America. Let's curl up on the couch under a blanket and watch all the movies I have. It'll take at least a few days of this time we have too much of.
You know what, America? I could really fall for you if I'm not careful.
III.
Hello America.
What are you doing on my doorstep? Didn't I tell you to stop hanging out at my stoop? You've been leaving your empty bottles in my gladiolas and your cigarette butts in my daffodils. It's true, the mosquitoes aren't so thick and the slugs haven't been in my house for a while, but don't you have anywhere else to go?
I've tried to push you away, but you just keep coming back for more. The last time you called I told you I was moving in with Canada, because she spoke softly to me and would take care of me. I guess you didn't believe me, huh? Well, I don't blame you. I know I've lied to you a lot.
I've had my reasons though, you know that.
Remember when I tried to get that restraining order? The police wouldn't believe that you were harassing me. We all have our own loyalties I guess.
America, you might as well come on in.
It's getting late. You could just stay the night, if you wanted. I never want to see you without a home. Sure, we can sleep together like always. You know I've always loved you. You know I'm part of you. No matter how I talk. A frontier girl, huh? It's nice you still see me like that. I haven't felt very Lewis & Clark lately though. When I was little I used to think it was Lois and Clark, like from superman.
You can stop laughing America. Wrap your arms around me. We'll sleep with our bodies merging into one. Don't act surprised. you know I'm your own.
IV.
One last thing, America, before you go.
Please don't. Please don't go. Let's just lie here forever. We can whisper our secrets to each other. You can tell me about the time when Mexico poisoned us, I know that Mr. Polk and you were the only ones who saw. You can tell me about the last frontier and how it was destroyed by greed and prejudice. You can tell me what you're scared of . . . war, anger, the end of democracy. I promise I'll listen.
I promise I'll touch your face just when you need me to. But oh America. Oh my own America. I don't want to push you away again.
Let's go back to sleep for a while, America. Let me feel the warmth of you against my bare skin.
It's been a long day, America. we both need a break.
V.
America, let's not do this again. We've gone through it all so many times, just you and I. Remember the first time you came back? Remember how we sat in that diner until the sun came up? We talked through all the issues. You thought I could help since I had all those psychology books, as though I knew something you didn't.
We're both clueless though. Weeks at a time we share my bed, kitten coy smiles in the morning that turn to raging cats at night (you promised to let the mountain lions come back to West Virginia). But like clockwork it becomes one day too long, and the morning arrives when you won't let me leave the bed until I wear the signs of your torment on my flesh. The bruises fade, the redness goes, but there's a scar I'll wear forever. Sometimes, in the right light, it looks like my own state, but America, I never needed a public symbol of my pride.
You know how it goes from here. I hide and cry while you storm and rage. The minute you leave the house your boots are on the steps, with your extra pair of jeans and all the clean socks I can find. We spend weeks avoiding each other... Remember, America, the year I couldn't go to the county fair? Because I knew you'd be there, waiting in between the hog barns and the Ferris wheel. One week, two weeks, once a month, go by and you're back on my doorstep, professing change and love and all your good intentions. You forget about the A.A. meetings though, and I let you, knowing that instead you'll hold me tight and whisper the constitution in my ear.
Okay, America, we'll go through it again though. You feel helpless, overpowered, faceless in a sea of flags and blind faith in corrupt leaders. America you are not a god, you are not stronger than the rest of us. You are Canada's trouble-making, backwoods cousin, not a nanny for the third-world. Don't cry, darling, don't let it out like that. Just breathe. Breathe in, breathe out, and let's forget about the world for a while. Remember isolationism? Maybe that was better for you. No, I know, you learned your lesson about that, but it wasn't really you, America. Since when does anyone listen to you? Do you whisper in the ears of congress like you do in mine at three a.m.? Here, just keep breathing, I've got you.
Of course you can stay, America. You can always stay, you know that. I've given up pretending you're not welcome here. I love the feel of your hard arms around me too much for that. I love the sound of your voice and the stories you can tell. Will you tell me about my great-great-uncle the sharp shooter again? Oh, no, I'm sorry America, I know you don't really like those war stories. No, you're right, the Civil War was awful, let's not talk about it. Tell me about my granddad instead, America. Tell me about him and the hot-rod race, or the house with all the hidden liquor.
Hold me, America. Wrap your arms and legs around me and don't let go until I can face the news again. It's easier with you here, baby, even the marks are easier than another soldier dead, another village gone. Let it all out, America. Let me keep it inside my tight fists for a while so you can have a rest.
This time, this time, we'll make it work for good, for keeps.
My America
I.
We had been seeing each other around forever. Every time I even thought about a county fair, I'd catch a glimpse of America. Walking down the street, driving in the van, getting ice cream, all sorts of things. America attracted me, but I never thought we had a chance together. It always seemed like we were just too different, too similar, too at odds with each other. America was just another hopeless dream. Something left over from reading too much Jack Kerouac.
Then I bought a truck. An old truck. A truck with a lot of rust and one side painted black and the other red. I named him Whitman and christened him with stickers and said, "This is a good truck." Whitman - a Ford Ranger, an old one. 1988. Sometimes I wonder if America and I would have met if it had been a Dodge or a Subaru station wagon. America says of course we would have, but I'm not so sure. America is more judgemental than anyone (including America) would like to think. All the same, it happened.
I stopped at a gas station to feed Whitman's fuel consumption, and America told me I had a nice truck. I smiled in spite of myself and said "He's a good old truck." America and I went to a show together that night. America claimed to have had that plan before we met, but I'm not always sure. It was a punk show. America is all about punk rock, which made me laugh. America moshed like no one else. Stomping and pushing and shoving; all pointy elbows and knees. Some kids got a little hurt, not used to real anger in the pits. The band had some sort of carnal power over everyone. They reminded me of Fugazi, but comparing bands has become some sort of faux pas in the punk scenes. Don't ask me why, I just listen to the music.
America talked about musical theory to me and I nodded politely. America talked about war and I closed my eyes and hummed. America talked about soul and depth and compassion and I laughed out loud. When America asked me why, I just kept laughing, I couldn't answer. I only kept laughing because I sat there talking to America in the bright city night listening to these words of love and America speaking with such innocence. The innocence and the lack of hate hurt my heart in a comical way. It turns out America doesn't like the locals, but seemed pretty sure things were like this everywhere. We held hands and agreed with each other.
I took a deep breath and asked if America wanted a ride home. America looked at me with bare shoulders and sweaty skin, and told me there was no home to go to.
Now I held my breath and asked America to stay with me. America looked at me with a jacket over one shoulder and knobby knees poking through holes in jeans. America smiled, hair in eyes, and told me yes.
When we got to my apartment I apologized for the mess and turned on the lights. America stared at everything while I talked nervously. It's intimidating having America in your house when you've never even cared to get to know each other before. Every supposition was wrong, every generalization. Except maybe a few. America has always lived in Appalachia. When I asked why the answer was already in my heart. "This just feels like home." I took off America's shirt to look at the tattoos underneath. The preamble to the constitution in small neat letters across America's back. It figures.
Come sleep with me, America. Let's wrap the world between our bodies.
America's eyes hesitated, but the body came without a thought. America is full of heartbreak, but I didn't find that out until my own heart shattered.
II.
Waking up I saw America lying next me, huddled against my hip holding my stuffed animals against a bare chest. For a while I sat, and looked, and forgot that it was America. I mean, America. In my apartment. In my bed. Next to my body. Holding my stuffed animals.
"Stop drooling on my stuffed animals," I whispered, not believing it would break the sleep or the spell.
America sat up and looked at me, wiping drool from his mouth. America really isn't a morning person and I found that out the hard way. America was still looking at me as I felt around my bed for a shirt. Out of the corner of my eye I can see pale flesh moving faster than my eyes can follow. Then I'm on my back and my face is stinging like I got hit with a slap shot in street hockey. I can feel the handprint on my face. I can feel where the bruise will be purple and where it will be sickly green. America mutters something about not waking people up in the morning unless they ask to be and lays back down.
I watch America falling asleep and touch the puffiness in my cheek. Within minutes I can hear America's deep breathing and know that I'm the only one awake. I start to get up making as little noise and motion as possible but America grabs my wrist and holds on tight. Shit. America keeps the hold until I lay back down, curling our bodies together again. Tears burn my still stinging face, but I fall back asleep in America's protective hands.
I woke up with a hand print bruised into my cheek and the sound of America making pancakes in my kitchen. Groggy, uneasy, confused, I went to the kitchen.
America smiled so warmly, held my hand so tenderly, eyes so soft. America, are you the same person you were three hours ago?
America is still smiling at me and I am still confused. America could be my alcoholic husband, I think. America, please stop smiling at me. You make my heart ache and I don't even know you.
I hope you like French pancakes, America says. I stand tiptoe to put my head just below America's chin and push our bodies together. Smiling, even I forget what happened. I wonder if I dreamed it, and I know I must have, feeling America's arm around my waist, America's lips on my neck.
America you make the most delicious pancakes. Better than I ever do. And it's nice to eat like this, while holding hands under the table. You're the only person to make me breakfast without boasting first, I say. I'll bet you even make a good souffle. America just smiles shyly under long eyelashes.
America let's play dress-up, you and me. I have a whole closet full of personalities we can try on. Why don't we see what feels the most comfortable and then go out in public like that. No wait, let's just stay here America. Let's curl up on the couch under a blanket and watch all the movies I have. It'll take at least a few days of this time we have too much of.
You know what, America? I could really fall for you if I'm not careful.
III.
Hello America.
What are you doing on my doorstep? Didn't I tell you to stop hanging out at my stoop? You've been leaving your empty bottles in my gladiolas and your cigarette butts in my daffodils. It's true, the mosquitoes aren't so thick and the slugs haven't been in my house for a while, but don't you have anywhere else to go?
I've tried to push you away, but you just keep coming back for more. The last time you called I told you I was moving in with Canada, because she spoke softly to me and would take care of me. I guess you didn't believe me, huh? Well, I don't blame you. I know I've lied to you a lot.
I've had my reasons though, you know that.
Remember when I tried to get that restraining order? The police wouldn't believe that you were harassing me. We all have our own loyalties I guess.
America, you might as well come on in.
It's getting late. You could just stay the night, if you wanted. I never want to see you without a home. Sure, we can sleep together like always. You know I've always loved you. You know I'm part of you. No matter how I talk. A frontier girl, huh? It's nice you still see me like that. I haven't felt very Lewis & Clark lately though. When I was little I used to think it was Lois and Clark, like from superman.
You can stop laughing America. Wrap your arms around me. We'll sleep with our bodies merging into one. Don't act surprised. you know I'm your own.
IV.
One last thing, America, before you go.
Please don't. Please don't go. Let's just lie here forever. We can whisper our secrets to each other. You can tell me about the time when Mexico poisoned us, I know that Mr. Polk and you were the only ones who saw. You can tell me about the last frontier and how it was destroyed by greed and prejudice. You can tell me what you're scared of . . . war, anger, the end of democracy. I promise I'll listen.
I promise I'll touch your face just when you need me to. But oh America. Oh my own America. I don't want to push you away again.
Let's go back to sleep for a while, America. Let me feel the warmth of you against my bare skin.
It's been a long day, America. we both need a break.
V.
America, let's not do this again. We've gone through it all so many times, just you and I. Remember the first time you came back? Remember how we sat in that diner until the sun came up? We talked through all the issues. You thought I could help since I had all those psychology books, as though I knew something you didn't.
We're both clueless though. Weeks at a time we share my bed, kitten coy smiles in the morning that turn to raging cats at night (you promised to let the mountain lions come back to West Virginia). But like clockwork it becomes one day too long, and the morning arrives when you won't let me leave the bed until I wear the signs of your torment on my flesh. The bruises fade, the redness goes, but there's a scar I'll wear forever. Sometimes, in the right light, it looks like my own state, but America, I never needed a public symbol of my pride.
You know how it goes from here. I hide and cry while you storm and rage. The minute you leave the house your boots are on the steps, with your extra pair of jeans and all the clean socks I can find. We spend weeks avoiding each other... Remember, America, the year I couldn't go to the county fair? Because I knew you'd be there, waiting in between the hog barns and the Ferris wheel. One week, two weeks, once a month, go by and you're back on my doorstep, professing change and love and all your good intentions. You forget about the A.A. meetings though, and I let you, knowing that instead you'll hold me tight and whisper the constitution in my ear.
Okay, America, we'll go through it again though. You feel helpless, overpowered, faceless in a sea of flags and blind faith in corrupt leaders. America you are not a god, you are not stronger than the rest of us. You are Canada's trouble-making, backwoods cousin, not a nanny for the third-world. Don't cry, darling, don't let it out like that. Just breathe. Breathe in, breathe out, and let's forget about the world for a while. Remember isolationism? Maybe that was better for you. No, I know, you learned your lesson about that, but it wasn't really you, America. Since when does anyone listen to you? Do you whisper in the ears of congress like you do in mine at three a.m.? Here, just keep breathing, I've got you.
Of course you can stay, America. You can always stay, you know that. I've given up pretending you're not welcome here. I love the feel of your hard arms around me too much for that. I love the sound of your voice and the stories you can tell. Will you tell me about my great-great-uncle the sharp shooter again? Oh, no, I'm sorry America, I know you don't really like those war stories. No, you're right, the Civil War was awful, let's not talk about it. Tell me about my granddad instead, America. Tell me about him and the hot-rod race, or the house with all the hidden liquor.
Hold me, America. Wrap your arms and legs around me and don't let go until I can face the news again. It's easier with you here, baby, even the marks are easier than another soldier dead, another village gone. Let it all out, America. Let me keep it inside my tight fists for a while so you can have a rest.
This time, this time, we'll make it work for good, for keeps.