When I recently met a factory executive where I work, I cannot pretend I was shocked that he didn’t know my name. Thousands of workers labor around the clock in a facility as large as a minor-league sports arena, and I haven’t been there long enough to distinguish myself yet. But I was shocked when I mentioned my job title, and he not only knew who I was, but could quote from my employee file.
In a modern condensed industrial environment, where people work elbow to elbow and often get identified in company files according to what they do, work becomes an intensely impersonal endeavor. Humans love work, and define ourselves by our labor, as I’ve said before. When we meet new people, we ask: “So what do you do for a living?” Yet industrial and post-industrial society hampers work’s simple joy.
Barbara Garson’s All the Livelong Day observes the gap between workers’ and managers’ expectations. A Socialist, Garson began her research considering work an unfair imposition by a lopsided economy. But she discovered how much people treasure consequential work. As she writes, “The crime of modern industry is not forcing us to work, but denying us real work. For no matter what tricks people play on themselves to make the day's work meaningful, management seems determined to remind them, ‘You are just tools for our use.’”
If my assembly line runs a standard 45 units per minute, then each unit sits before me for one and one-half seconds. During that time I must evaluate the unit’s quality, decide if it meets standards, and fit it for the next station in line. This often means only attaching one part; a filter that costs $12.95 may have fourteen people involved just in assembly, to say nothing of components before I see them or after they leave me.
In such an environment, we must re-evaluate “pride of craftsmanship.” I cannot claim to make the 18,000 filters rolling off my line nightly, any more than any individual can. Thus, I find pride in, for instance, being able to outpace the machine, or maintain a steady rhythm, or perform two tasks at once. My peers and I often do one job with the left hand and another with the right.
But not every trick we perfect improves our work. Especially in the most tedious areas, workers often play games intended to establish themselves apart from their jobs. Like the manager who knew me only by my title, many supervisors identify workers by their assigned machines: Forklift Driver. Paint Line Maintenance. Can Press Operator.
In attempting to separate their identities from their jobs, such workers frequently earn supervisors’ ire. Because the company exists to turn low-valued raw materials into high-valued commodities, workers’ games and playfulness seem extraneous and, if workers spent more time working and less noodling, they’d earn more profit.
Some managers regard anything less than working flat out for eight straight hours as theft of company time, attested in Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickel and Dimed. One manager (I won’t name names) reprimanded me for pausing to crack my back, a necessary time investment since the assembly line is built for someone six inches shorter than me. Back pain is part of my work routine; thus, so is back pain relief.
Whenever somebody mentions unions in America today, nay-sayers claim that workers don’t need representation; they’re paid according to their work, and if they want better pay and benefits, they should work harder. But, as Joshua Holland notes in The Fifteen Biggest Lies about the Economy, there is not now, and arguably never has been, any relationship between the hardest work and the highest pay.
My factory sometimes runs so fast that seasoned workers can’t match the pace. Work orders require such high output that really doing the work would cause repetitive stress injuries. I work two jobs and can’t afford to change the oil in my truck, but I’ve been called on the carpet for mistakes I could avoid if the machines ran at a marginally slower pace.
As managers disparage workers, workers retrench into their identities. Mutual resentment builds, and the gulf between management and labor gets reinforced. It’s a vicious cycle, created by the fact that individuals don’t own the product of their labors, and nourished because we don’t really know each other.
I love work. I enjoy my job. But I am not my job. And that makes me a threat to a system that thrives on anonymity.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
Let Me Entertain (and Inform) You
I first encountered the show tune “Hey Big Spender” on the Muppet Show when I was small. A perky Dyan Cannon in a cotton dress and floppy hat entered a pet store and traded lines with a chorus of puppies about which she would adopt. As you’d expect from the Muppets, it was all upbeat and playful. Imagine my shock when I saw the film version of Sweet Charity, the musical from which the song originates. This was a true vision of people in hell:
When a major computer company recently used the song “Let Me Entertain You,” from the play Gypsy, to sell tablet computers, I initially dismissed this as a typical weak choice. That is, until I heard two teenagers at a play rehearsal trading licks from the song in the exact style TV star Lea Michele uses in the commercial. Because advertising is pervasive in our culture, a commercial can influence how we perceive a song.
“Let Me Entertain You” is Gypsy’s unifying theme, linking young Rose Louise Hovick’s progression from a young vaudeville performer under her mother’s thumb, to her adult role as burlesque dancer Gypsy Rose Lee. Noted for her intellectual style and witty delivery, Gypsy Rose Lee innovated striptease, smartening the tone and pushing it to an art. But that doesn’t change the fact that she took her clothes off for money.
Musical theatre often appears intellectually lightweight because of how it gets manhandled in community and youth theatre productions. Many people never see musical theatre except in sanitized versions that pull out the shows’ teeth to satisfy our society’s desire to protect and coddle children. Because more ambitious shows run up more ambitious budgets, many working-class people never see the potential theatre contains.
A production of Oklahoma I appeared in glossed over themes of territorial ambition, relationship violence, and the anger sublimated in prairie life. I’ve watched productions of Dracula that elided both sex and horror. Few productions of Grease deal forthrightly with the show’s themes of gang violence, sexual exploration, and class conflict. Why do we castrate smart, ambitious shows this way?
Because of its fringe placement, theatre has the liberty to address themes and issues that more mass media shy away from. Finian’s Rainbow, which deals with racial prejudice in the American South, was not made into a film until that prejudice was largely controlled and abated, despite the play’s phenomenal success. Hollywood could have made stacks of money off such a film, but was too risk averse to actually take on the themes.
Advertising pushes that same inclination to truly bizarre lengths. Though TV ads do not manufacture the exclusively Caucasian environment they showed just a few years ago, they remain a world still remarkably free of conflict, controversy, or struggle. That includes poverty: working-class people who watch TV recreationally can be forgiven for thinking their plight is less common than it is, and blaming themselves.
I can’t pretend this is inexplicable. A realistic look at race, economics, and politics would make people feel anxious, which makes people hold onto their wallets. Since advertisers want to part viewers from their money, we can’t get too angry at them for doing their jobs. A pretty actress singing show tunes probably moves far more product than a frank evaluation of life’s hardships.
Lea Michele’s “Let Me Entertain You” ad emphasizes the singer’s physical beauty, amplifying it by holding her head still behind a computer screen while her hips and torso sway in a sparkly dress. It makes an interesting contrast to her character on Glee, notable for her artistic flair but social awkwardness. This ad turns Michele into a sex symbol, which is weird, considering how it smooths the edges of the song.
Gypsy first appeared with the subtitle “A Musical Fable,” because that’s exactly what it was. Though generally positive in its attitude toward the title character, it also describes the arc of descent as Rose Louise transforms from a wide-eyed child star to an aggressive, career-driven stripper. “Let Me Entertain You” embodies the movement as Gypsy turns her body into a commodity.
I really fear those two teenagers will not understand what that song means. I fear they will think it only refers to the entertainment capabilities of a computer, and that they will proceed into the world unaware of the possibility that life could blindside them. We need to stop sanding the edges off our lives, because we owe it to those coming after us to face life forthrightly.
When a major computer company recently used the song “Let Me Entertain You,” from the play Gypsy, to sell tablet computers, I initially dismissed this as a typical weak choice. That is, until I heard two teenagers at a play rehearsal trading licks from the song in the exact style TV star Lea Michele uses in the commercial. Because advertising is pervasive in our culture, a commercial can influence how we perceive a song.
“Let Me Entertain You” is Gypsy’s unifying theme, linking young Rose Louise Hovick’s progression from a young vaudeville performer under her mother’s thumb, to her adult role as burlesque dancer Gypsy Rose Lee. Noted for her intellectual style and witty delivery, Gypsy Rose Lee innovated striptease, smartening the tone and pushing it to an art. But that doesn’t change the fact that she took her clothes off for money.
Musical theatre often appears intellectually lightweight because of how it gets manhandled in community and youth theatre productions. Many people never see musical theatre except in sanitized versions that pull out the shows’ teeth to satisfy our society’s desire to protect and coddle children. Because more ambitious shows run up more ambitious budgets, many working-class people never see the potential theatre contains.
A production of Oklahoma I appeared in glossed over themes of territorial ambition, relationship violence, and the anger sublimated in prairie life. I’ve watched productions of Dracula that elided both sex and horror. Few productions of Grease deal forthrightly with the show’s themes of gang violence, sexual exploration, and class conflict. Why do we castrate smart, ambitious shows this way?
Because of its fringe placement, theatre has the liberty to address themes and issues that more mass media shy away from. Finian’s Rainbow, which deals with racial prejudice in the American South, was not made into a film until that prejudice was largely controlled and abated, despite the play’s phenomenal success. Hollywood could have made stacks of money off such a film, but was too risk averse to actually take on the themes.
Advertising pushes that same inclination to truly bizarre lengths. Though TV ads do not manufacture the exclusively Caucasian environment they showed just a few years ago, they remain a world still remarkably free of conflict, controversy, or struggle. That includes poverty: working-class people who watch TV recreationally can be forgiven for thinking their plight is less common than it is, and blaming themselves.
I can’t pretend this is inexplicable. A realistic look at race, economics, and politics would make people feel anxious, which makes people hold onto their wallets. Since advertisers want to part viewers from their money, we can’t get too angry at them for doing their jobs. A pretty actress singing show tunes probably moves far more product than a frank evaluation of life’s hardships.
Lea Michele’s “Let Me Entertain You” ad emphasizes the singer’s physical beauty, amplifying it by holding her head still behind a computer screen while her hips and torso sway in a sparkly dress. It makes an interesting contrast to her character on Glee, notable for her artistic flair but social awkwardness. This ad turns Michele into a sex symbol, which is weird, considering how it smooths the edges of the song.
Gypsy first appeared with the subtitle “A Musical Fable,” because that’s exactly what it was. Though generally positive in its attitude toward the title character, it also describes the arc of descent as Rose Louise transforms from a wide-eyed child star to an aggressive, career-driven stripper. “Let Me Entertain You” embodies the movement as Gypsy turns her body into a commodity.
I really fear those two teenagers will not understand what that song means. I fear they will think it only refers to the entertainment capabilities of a computer, and that they will proceed into the world unaware of the possibility that life could blindside them. We need to stop sanding the edges off our lives, because we owe it to those coming after us to face life forthrightly.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Three Visions of a Christian Life
The church denomination I attend has a deep-rooted fear of “works righteousness,” the belief that our actions can in any way bring us closer to God. This fear, sadly, has resulted in many faithful Christians thinking that any call to do anything or change our lives is heretical. Nothing could be further from the truth, and as three new books emphasize, Christianity really is about how we life this life God gives us.
In Rumors of God, Darren Whitehead and Jon Tyson address speak to people who have grown dissatisfied with religious talk that doesn’t jibe with actions. Why, when the Church promises us heaven, do we feel no different at day’s end? Because, they say, we’ve allowed humans to reduce our faith to mere rumors and empty talk. But there’s so much more out there. God promises us a whole new life.
But they don’t just offer vague abstractions. They analyze what topics Jesus most discusses, what values make a Christian life—justice, community, freedom, and grace. They present the life of faith as one of engagement, where we don’t just believe, but we act, stepping out boldly in the knowledge that God guides our steps. The life of faith, for these authors, is a life of action, living out the commandments.
Sadly, many Christians may feel put off by this book because the authors discuss social issues. This makes many Christians uncomfortable. But the authors say nothing out of accord with Scripture, and in fact, they emphasize the promises and goals which the conventional church often overlooks.
This dovetails with Ben Patterson’s message in Muscular Faith. Patterson notes how often Christ, Paul, and other Scriptural voices describe faith and salvation using metaphors from athletics and warfare. Faith is not just something we have, he says; faith is something we strive after. We do not rest comfortable because we have been saved; we work for God’s Kingdom until we cross that final finish line.
Often, the modern Church acts uncomfortable with the warfare images in Scripture. We don’t like the idea that some people who mean well will nevertheless not make it into the Kingdom. But Patterson says we must take the Scripture seriously if we want to call ourselves Christian. “Fighting the good fight” is no mere figure of speech; we are called to strive for the Kingdom, strong in will and active in our intents.
Unlike Whitehead and Tyson, who state their thesis compactly, Patterson’s prose runs on longer than I would ordinarily like. He takes perhaps fifty pages longer than he needs to make his point. But in doing so, he carefully extracts the meaning of faith, not as a “one and done” affair, but as an ongoing process. We don’t get a rubber stamp on our passport to heaven when God enters our lives, but rather a mission to fulfill.
John Bevere takes this thesis even further in Extraordinary. Where most mainline churches preach that Christians are saved from their sins, Bevere claims we are saved into a new life, not only free from sin, but full of purpose. Bevere’s is probably the most controversial of these three books, because he claims the faithful Christian can shed sin altogether, but he bolsters this claim with copious scripture.
Bevere expands on Patterson’s themes of holy work and mission, saying that, if we pursue God’s Kingdom goals, we can live a life of much greater complexity and fulfillment than human desires can provide. Living out the mission brings pleasure to God, and bringing God pleasure brings meaning to us.
Bevere’s premise, that we can expunge sin and human shortcoming from our lives, will threaten conventional theology. But his exegesis has a broad and firm enough foundation that I’m willing to at least study and pray over his ideas. Even if his high-minded promises don’t wash in the end, Bevere at least gives us something to strive after—which, after all, is what all three books promise.
Too often, the biggest problem Christians face in their faith walk is not sin or temptation, but vagueness. Having been saved, we have too little sense what we’ve been saved for. These books give Christians something to be about, and not just something to oppose. I’ve said before that we lose when we treat faith as anything less than a whole life. These authors delve into what that really means at street level. Despite their shortcomings, I hope these books find the audience that so desperately needs to hear their message.
In Rumors of God, Darren Whitehead and Jon Tyson address speak to people who have grown dissatisfied with religious talk that doesn’t jibe with actions. Why, when the Church promises us heaven, do we feel no different at day’s end? Because, they say, we’ve allowed humans to reduce our faith to mere rumors and empty talk. But there’s so much more out there. God promises us a whole new life.But they don’t just offer vague abstractions. They analyze what topics Jesus most discusses, what values make a Christian life—justice, community, freedom, and grace. They present the life of faith as one of engagement, where we don’t just believe, but we act, stepping out boldly in the knowledge that God guides our steps. The life of faith, for these authors, is a life of action, living out the commandments.
Sadly, many Christians may feel put off by this book because the authors discuss social issues. This makes many Christians uncomfortable. But the authors say nothing out of accord with Scripture, and in fact, they emphasize the promises and goals which the conventional church often overlooks.
This dovetails with Ben Patterson’s message in Muscular Faith. Patterson notes how often Christ, Paul, and other Scriptural voices describe faith and salvation using metaphors from athletics and warfare. Faith is not just something we have, he says; faith is something we strive after. We do not rest comfortable because we have been saved; we work for God’s Kingdom until we cross that final finish line.Often, the modern Church acts uncomfortable with the warfare images in Scripture. We don’t like the idea that some people who mean well will nevertheless not make it into the Kingdom. But Patterson says we must take the Scripture seriously if we want to call ourselves Christian. “Fighting the good fight” is no mere figure of speech; we are called to strive for the Kingdom, strong in will and active in our intents.
Unlike Whitehead and Tyson, who state their thesis compactly, Patterson’s prose runs on longer than I would ordinarily like. He takes perhaps fifty pages longer than he needs to make his point. But in doing so, he carefully extracts the meaning of faith, not as a “one and done” affair, but as an ongoing process. We don’t get a rubber stamp on our passport to heaven when God enters our lives, but rather a mission to fulfill.
John Bevere takes this thesis even further in Extraordinary. Where most mainline churches preach that Christians are saved from their sins, Bevere claims we are saved into a new life, not only free from sin, but full of purpose. Bevere’s is probably the most controversial of these three books, because he claims the faithful Christian can shed sin altogether, but he bolsters this claim with copious scripture.Bevere expands on Patterson’s themes of holy work and mission, saying that, if we pursue God’s Kingdom goals, we can live a life of much greater complexity and fulfillment than human desires can provide. Living out the mission brings pleasure to God, and bringing God pleasure brings meaning to us.
Bevere’s premise, that we can expunge sin and human shortcoming from our lives, will threaten conventional theology. But his exegesis has a broad and firm enough foundation that I’m willing to at least study and pray over his ideas. Even if his high-minded promises don’t wash in the end, Bevere at least gives us something to strive after—which, after all, is what all three books promise.
Too often, the biggest problem Christians face in their faith walk is not sin or temptation, but vagueness. Having been saved, we have too little sense what we’ve been saved for. These books give Christians something to be about, and not just something to oppose. I’ve said before that we lose when we treat faith as anything less than a whole life. These authors delve into what that really means at street level. Despite their shortcomings, I hope these books find the audience that so desperately needs to hear their message.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Everyday Saints—Why Faith is an Outsider Enterprise
When the archdiocese of San Francisco ordered the closure of thirteen Catholic congregations in 1993, they did not anticipate the strong feeling parishioners at St Brigid’s held for their building. Shuttered in 1994, St Brigid’s has not remained quiet: parishioners organized to challenge the Archdiocese’s ruling. Remarkably, churchgoers who had seen each other in the pews for years only got to know each other after their congregation was forcibly closed.
Julian Guthrie’s The Grace of Everyday Saints recounts how the faithful ejected from a 134-year-old parish discovered one another in the effort to reclaim the building they considered home. St Brigid’s organized into a body so they could demonstrate to the archdiocese why they remained viable, and a force for Catholicism in increasingly secular San Francisco. That’s when they discovered their congregation had fallen victim to a much more insidious problem.
Throughout the story, I noticed one recurrent fact: the Catholic hierarchy acted surprised that the faithful didn’t do as they were told. The Church is organized on the belief that Christ reveals Himself through the scripture and through the organization, and therefore, good Catholics obey church dictates as the will of God. But the St Brigid’s people, including a zealous priest, balked.
Perhaps it reflects my Protestantism, but I don’t understand the Church’s position. When I read scripture, I notice that Jesus has nothing but praise and hope for tax collectors and prostitutes. Christ reserves His harshest invective not for sinners, but for priests and other church leaders. Does the Church think itself somehow immune to this?
Considering what we know about the Catholic church today, blind hierarchical obedience seems not just unscriptural, but counterproductive. Jesus’ method of teaching and instruction described in Matthew 8:15-19 puts the onus of the church first on the individual. Yet, as Jecques Ellul says in The Presence of the Kingdom, many who remain weak in faith look for institutions—churches, governments, or whomever—to practice virtue, so they need not do so themselves.
Thus I find, in St Brigid, a real expression of Christ’s mission today. Forced out of their own building, they forged strategic alliances, such as meeting in the basement of a nearby Russian Orthodox congregation. Two churches that seldom talk to one another found a common goal. Millennium-old differences vanished because they spoke to each other with respect and dignity.
Similarly, the Committee to Save St Brigid organized good works, gathering food and clothing for the homeless. In an attempt to foster support for their cause, elderly Catholics—not known as Earth’s most outgoing or broad-minded people—marched in San Francisco’s Gay Pride Parade. And they made important discoveries: it’s hard to hate somebody once you know them.
Outside their building, they simply became the Church. They recovered their Christian mission to approach others. Just as Jesus, in healing lepers, did the unthinkable by touching them, the St Brigid’s parishioners reached out to people their leadership named untouchable. They brought God’s love to “the least of these,” while the hierarchy tried to conceal its systemic rot.
Many people find Catholicism’s long history and somber rites to be their ultimate door into Christianity. A dear friend recently began Catechism at age 36 because Catholicism’s rituals spoke to him. Many Evangelicals, long disdainful of ritual, see this need as a reason why numerous Protestants have recently converted to Catholic or Orthodox Christianity. Three evangelical leaders recently published Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals, in part to fill this need.
Yet, as Guthrie recounts it, the closer St Brigid’s grew to God, the more alienated they became from their leadership. The hierarchy, in turn, grew retrenched: one especially recalcitrant archbishop has since been promoted to Joseph Ratzinger’s old Vatican office, making him a strong contender for the Papacy. It’s hard to miss the irony.
In the Gospels, Christ dedicated his ministry to poor communities like Capernaum, Sychar, and Bethany. He touched lepers, spoke with Samaritans, and showed women respect. Jesus’ anger with priests and the wealthy was legend, and, considering his story of the rich man and Lazarus, he had little interest in the powerful. Christ’s mission took place at street level, not in palaces and basilicas.
Nothing against them, but I hope the St Brigid’s congregation never gets their building back. As beautiful as Guthrie’s photos show it, her interview subjects admit they stayed isolated from one another indoors. Only out in the streets did they become a Light to the Nation. Now they’re too beautiful to ever turn back.
Committee to Save St Brigid Church
Julian Guthrie’s The Grace of Everyday Saints recounts how the faithful ejected from a 134-year-old parish discovered one another in the effort to reclaim the building they considered home. St Brigid’s organized into a body so they could demonstrate to the archdiocese why they remained viable, and a force for Catholicism in increasingly secular San Francisco. That’s when they discovered their congregation had fallen victim to a much more insidious problem.Throughout the story, I noticed one recurrent fact: the Catholic hierarchy acted surprised that the faithful didn’t do as they were told. The Church is organized on the belief that Christ reveals Himself through the scripture and through the organization, and therefore, good Catholics obey church dictates as the will of God. But the St Brigid’s people, including a zealous priest, balked.
Perhaps it reflects my Protestantism, but I don’t understand the Church’s position. When I read scripture, I notice that Jesus has nothing but praise and hope for tax collectors and prostitutes. Christ reserves His harshest invective not for sinners, but for priests and other church leaders. Does the Church think itself somehow immune to this?
Considering what we know about the Catholic church today, blind hierarchical obedience seems not just unscriptural, but counterproductive. Jesus’ method of teaching and instruction described in Matthew 8:15-19 puts the onus of the church first on the individual. Yet, as Jecques Ellul says in The Presence of the Kingdom, many who remain weak in faith look for institutions—churches, governments, or whomever—to practice virtue, so they need not do so themselves.Thus I find, in St Brigid, a real expression of Christ’s mission today. Forced out of their own building, they forged strategic alliances, such as meeting in the basement of a nearby Russian Orthodox congregation. Two churches that seldom talk to one another found a common goal. Millennium-old differences vanished because they spoke to each other with respect and dignity.
Similarly, the Committee to Save St Brigid organized good works, gathering food and clothing for the homeless. In an attempt to foster support for their cause, elderly Catholics—not known as Earth’s most outgoing or broad-minded people—marched in San Francisco’s Gay Pride Parade. And they made important discoveries: it’s hard to hate somebody once you know them.
Outside their building, they simply became the Church. They recovered their Christian mission to approach others. Just as Jesus, in healing lepers, did the unthinkable by touching them, the St Brigid’s parishioners reached out to people their leadership named untouchable. They brought God’s love to “the least of these,” while the hierarchy tried to conceal its systemic rot.
Many people find Catholicism’s long history and somber rites to be their ultimate door into Christianity. A dear friend recently began Catechism at age 36 because Catholicism’s rituals spoke to him. Many Evangelicals, long disdainful of ritual, see this need as a reason why numerous Protestants have recently converted to Catholic or Orthodox Christianity. Three evangelical leaders recently published Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals, in part to fill this need.Yet, as Guthrie recounts it, the closer St Brigid’s grew to God, the more alienated they became from their leadership. The hierarchy, in turn, grew retrenched: one especially recalcitrant archbishop has since been promoted to Joseph Ratzinger’s old Vatican office, making him a strong contender for the Papacy. It’s hard to miss the irony.
In the Gospels, Christ dedicated his ministry to poor communities like Capernaum, Sychar, and Bethany. He touched lepers, spoke with Samaritans, and showed women respect. Jesus’ anger with priests and the wealthy was legend, and, considering his story of the rich man and Lazarus, he had little interest in the powerful. Christ’s mission took place at street level, not in palaces and basilicas.
Nothing against them, but I hope the St Brigid’s congregation never gets their building back. As beautiful as Guthrie’s photos show it, her interview subjects admit they stayed isolated from one another indoors. Only out in the streets did they become a Light to the Nation. Now they’re too beautiful to ever turn back.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
I'm In Love With America
Hear me out. Because I’m not ready to leave Sarah yet. I want to make a go of this relationship, and she’s been with me through some hard times. I feel I owe her. But America makes me feel young and reckless. And she knows it, too, always praising me for how free I act, what a great spirit I have, as long as I stay close at hand where she can keep a close eye on me.
I love spending time with America. She knows how to say all the right things that make me feel I could do anything. Some other countries may second-guess me on this, pointing out that Iceland is more developed, Denmark has a more equal relationship with its people, or India has a faster-growing economy. Sure, the facts may speak well of other nations, but they just can’t say enough to make me feel right, like America can.
Whenever I’ve spent time with Iceland, her volcanic temper has set me off, and her attempts to subvert air travel seems retrograde. India may wear pretty saris and whip up a mean curry, but she just feels so... full. Her rivers just don’t flow like they did in the old days. And Denmark is Denmark. Tell me, does anyone really love Denmark? She can stay with Norway for all I care.
Sure, America may have the oldest Constitution on Earth, but I say she’s young. Those other countries may have had a bunch of work, claiming that they’re a new and different Germany, but that dusty bitch is just a fresh new dress on the same old Holy Roman Empire. And I don’t care that Japan’s legislature is less than half as old as America’s, because if you’re old enough to have an emperor, you’re old.You hear me, EU? You can claim to be as young and hip as you want, but you’re still old!
America doesn’t just have great character or a beautiful spirit. She’s an attractive country. You know it too. From the big swelling curves of the Rocky Mountains to the smooth, curving sweep of the Mississippi River, America is a damned gorgeous country. I can’t get enough of just looking at this nation. Sure, she’s just lying there, but when I plow her fields or scale her heights, I feel something gorgeous deep in my heart.
And don’t bother to burden me with her blemishes. You can talk about all the digital billboards and Burger King franchises that have grown and clustered on my beautiful Ansel Adams centerfold. But I’m not a spring chicken anymore either. All the time I’ve spent working to keep her in pretty dresses has put some pretty deep care lines on my own face. But let me tell you, my darling America is totally worth it.
Sometimes, America just runs her fingers through my hair and whispers how she feels about me, too. She talks about how free I’ve become since I’ve been with her, how rich I’ve become, how powerful she’s made me. Sure, I know how much I spend on her, while she spends her days running around with rich underwear models and I work in the factory, but that doesn’t matter; I know how she makes me feel.
When you hear other bloggers claiming how much they love America, just keep in mind that I said it first. We’ve been together for a long time. And we look out for one another. Because, in any relationship with a country, any moment can turn passionate. And I’m passionate about America.
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