And it slowly dawned on me that the creators of “I Like America” had made one critical error: While they had not necessarily misunderstood the historical relationship between Americans and cowboy iconography, they totally misinterpreted its magnitude. With the possible exception of Jon Bon Jovi, I can’t think of any modern American who gives a shit about cowboys, even metaphorically. Dramatic op-ed writers are wont to criticize warhawk politicians by comparing them to John Wayne, but no one really believes thatHondoaffects policy; it’s just a shorthand way to describe something we already understand. But European intellectuals use cowboy culture to understand American sociology, and that’s a specious relationship (even during moments when it almost makes sense). As it turns out, Germans care about cowboys way more than we do.

EoTAW was highly critical of this argument, and the post reminded me that I, too, had taken issue with this article back in the day. I made some stupid comment on the blog, but then at home I managed to find where I had actually written down my thoughts on the piece, which are much smarter. I present them here for your enjoyment (updated, of course, because it is no longer 2007 and a lot has changed):

Europeans don’t overestimate the magnitude of cowboy mythology in American culture. If anything, I think Klosterman underestimated it. The frontier experience, the American West, and the image of the cowboy are all deeply ingrained in American culture; they’re a huge part of the national myths we root our culture in. Naturally, we don’t all make John Wayne references or think that western films have some deep, important impact on contemporary culture; to be perfectly honest, I’m not sure if most people of my generation or those behind me could even tell you who, precisely, John Wayne was. But I think you could stop anybody on the street and get a fairly standard description of what a cowboy is, and these descriptions wouldn’t just be “a guy who rides a horse and works on a ranch.” I believe that the average person would give a response that revealed the ways in which Americans associate the idealized cowboy with the idealized United States. Over the years, various public figures have used this image to their own advantage. In particular, savvy politicians (and/or their handlers and speech writers) play on this association to craft their own images.

It has been successfully argued for the past century that, to some extent, Americans root their sense of identity in the frontier experience. It’s the great battle against the wilderness that turns Europeans into Americans. Europe may be old and decadent, but America is fresh, new, tough, and democratic. This identity has various representations, but the small yeoman farmer and the cowboy are two of the most enduring. The cowboy is manly and self-sufficient. Basically, he’s the guy from “Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys”: a natural loner, but kind to children and dogs and a defender of the little guy. If you carry these ideas out to political theory, the cowboy is your typical libertarian. He’s definitely a believer in small government.[1]

Up until 2008, Kennedy was the last elected president from a state outside the South or West (Ford was from Michigan, but he wasn’t elected).[2] The post-war economic rise of the Sunbelt states has influenced the way politics play out in this country. Both Reagan and George W. Bush played on the image of the cowboy to convey a certain image to the public. And they both succeeded. When Reagan and Bush were filmed on their ranches, in western shirts and hats, the image was that of the common man, a guy just like you or me. They’re consciously counteracting the fact that they’re rich. These might be massive, expensive ranches that are primarily for show, but the imagery still conveys essential American qualities and ideals. By playing at being cowboys, these politicians were setting themselves up as trustworthy guys, the kinds of public officials that would stand for the common man, never back down from a fight, and hold to their own deeply held sense of honor.

The image of the cowboy holds a special place in American culture; it somehow even manages to overcome the boundaries of class. Bush could play on the fact that he comes from oil money and studied at Yale, but he’d lose a connection to the “common people.” And yet, when he selected an image that would connect to the average American, he didn’t play at being a construction worker or a cop. There’s something peculiar about the nature of cowboy mythology that allows it to maintain its appeal whether the person manipulating it portrays himself as a rancher or a cowhand. The spirit of independence and liberty remains.

As for Europeans, well, they have their own connection to American mythology themselves, primarily based on the works of Karl May. One of the best things I’ve seen on this topic is a Canadian documentary called If Only I Were an Indian. The filmmakers take some Cree people to the Czech Republic and Germany to meet people who intensely study native culture (including language) in order to spend their weekends dressing up as natives and camping in tipis. During the Soviet era, this kind of playacting functioned as a form of resistance to the state culture. It’s weird and kind of hilarious to watch this as an American, but utterly fascinating. It’s sadly only available in Canada (and only on VHS), so I can’t really tell you to go out and Netflix it or something. But should you ever come across it, I highly recommend watching it.

[1] There’s a whole weird paradox about the relationship between people and the federal government in the West: the federal government is the largest landholder west of the Mississippi, and Westerners resent this. At the same time, life in the arid West is made possible through huge government subsidies and work projects. Also, I just want to clarify here that when I say “the cowboy,” I mean “the idealized cowboy,” not necessarily actual guys out working on ranches.

[2] We can debate whether Illinois is “West” or not (Bill Cronon would say yes), but for the sake of argument let’s say it’s not. My point still stands: 1960 to 2008 is a long damn time, and the Northeast has been pretty much excluded from offering up presidential candidates (one of the many reasons I found the 2008 Democratic race utterly fascinating; a frontrunner from Chicago and another from New York).

Do you know what recognition is? In terms of federal policies and laws concerning Native Americans, recognition means the government has decided that a particular group is a “real” tribe and is entitled to the rights, privileges, and limited sovereignty the government grants such groups.

Now, recognition is established various ways. Either the government recognized you as a tribe back in the day – on the Dawes Rolls, or under IRA, etc. – or recognition was established at a later date. If the latter, the tribe had to apply for recognition. The recognition process is complicated and lengthy – it can take decades for a recognition case to be settled. The government requires proof that a tribe has been a united entity since the time of contact. This type of proof is not always easy to come by.

In California, recognition is made more complicated by the fact that most tribes never had an “official” relationship with the federal government. The treaties negotiated in 1851-1852 that should have established that relationship, and which most California tribes signed, were never ratified by the Senate. Anthropologists and government officials later deemed many tribes to be “extinct.”*

Recognition is highly prized. It allows a tribe a certain amount of sovereignty and self-government, and it allows tribes to place land into communal trust. Recognition is also a rare commodity. More tribes lost their cases than win. But the ones who win get big headlines, because what recognition also brings is the power to open a casino.

Indian gaming is an intensely controversial topic. It brings money to communities that struggled with poverty for decades, if not centuries. It also brings crime and congestion to formerly quiet rural areas. Personally, I’m in favor of it, but I do realize that it’s a complicated issue.

Gaming has brought a new, politically fraught dimension to the recognition process. For instance, in Northern California, the Mishewal Wappo tribe is trying to gain recognition. Several of the cities that surround their traditional homelands have filed suit to be present during the determination. Personally, this drives me insane. Surely they have a right to be concerned about what happens in their backyard, but for the most part, that doesn’t matter. Recognition is a federal process, and it’s not about whether the nearby town had concerns about a casino. It’s about whether the tribe can prove their case. It’s a matter for the tribe and the BIA. Municipal concerns are one thing, and I sympathize, but they shouldn’t enter into this equation. The cities really have no right to be a part of these discussions.

Like I said, I sympathize with their concerns. But I’m also totally enraged at the idea that this process, which is already complex and involved, is being further bogged down with problems that have no direct bearing on the issue at hand.

–

*”Extinct” tribes were those that no one could find any living members of, which sounds logical on the surface. Except that by the time academics and officials were making these determinations, California Indians had been exploited, oppressed, and enslaved for the better part of fifty years. A Salinan guy I know once told me a story about his grandfather, an old Indian tracker who lived in the Santa Lucia Mountains. One day a government official came into the local trading post and announced he was looking for Indians, to count for the census. No one responded, and so he moved on. The room, my acquaintance said, was full of Indians, but none so stupid as to identify themselves to a government official.

I like war movies. War memoirs, too. I’m not entirely sure why, but I suspect that it’s largely due to the fact that I like to think about the way that people behave in extreme situations, particularly situations I have never encountered. I like to think about the way that I would behave in such situations (usually, my conclusions on this point are not that flattering; a post for another day).

High school is like war. I don’t mean that in some overwrought, My So-Called Life, teen angsty sort of way. What I mean is that during your childhood, your situation is something you have no power to change, and this becomes increasingly intolerable as you develop towards adulthood. You might as well be stuck in the trenches. And all the people around you are stuck there just the same. And if you live in a small town—especially if you live in a small town—there is a 90% chance you loathe everything about your situation. You look on adults as enemies and your hometown as a place you can’t wait to leave. All you have are your compatriots, your comrades-in-arms, your friends. And you are all counting the days until you get your discharge papers.

In the last episode of M*A*S*H, there’s a part where Hawkeye and B.J. talk about how they’ll meet up when they get home, despite living on opposite sides of the country. But what you know, and what they know, is that they never will. War exists outside of normal life; the person you are in war exists separately of the person you are at home. War changes you, but it remains inherently separate. Once you’re gone from it, that world ceases to exist. That person ceases to exist. You go home to your family, to your job, to your life. And all those people who were your friends in the trenches, as you faced the same unchosen fate together, suddenly you see all the ways you are different from them, all the gulfs that separate you. In some ways, you will always know each other; in others, you will never know each other. It’s a rare relationship that can survive in both worlds.

The other day, a friend of mine, one of the few I’ve kept from childhood, told me that a distant acquaintance of ours had been arrested for beating a four year old to death. Apparently, meth was involved. I don’t recall meeting this guy, but his name is familiar; I’m pretty sure he went to the school my mom worked at, which means she would know him. I know he has siblings; I’m not sure which of them I’ve met, but I know there are several.

Obviously, I found this horrifying. Who wouldn’t? The scant details in the paper paint a pretty bleak picture of the situation. But this also started me thinking, about the people I grew up with, about the relationships I once had, and the gulf that now separates me from them, these people who were once my fellow soldiers.

When I was in high school, it really did seem like generational warfare at times. My mother hated that most of my friends were older boys from the alternative school, despite the fact that she didn’t hold with the idea that being at an alternative high school made you bad. She worried they’d take advantage of me, or that they’d be a bad influence on me. I thought this was a patently ludicrous belief. Why, I argued, would I hang out with people who took advantage of me? After all, the big tough boys I ran with would have—and did—kick the ass of anyone they thought was bothering me, regardless of my feelings on the matter.

Where my mom saw drop outs, juvenile delinquents, and products of broken homes, I saw people who cared about me—manna from heaven for a girl who’d never had a lot of friends. By all standard reasoning, I should not have been friends with these guys. I was young, and shy, and I cared about school. I didn’t do drugs, I didn’t listen to the right music, I didn’t have sex, I never said the right things. I was not cool. But they seemed to like me, for whatever reason. I really believed peer pressure was a myth for a time; none of my friends ever tried to make me do something I didn’t want to do. If I turned down a cigarette, they seemed impressed. If I left early to do my math homework, I was never teased.  The limits imposed by my curfew—and my unwillingness to break said, although they all understood that my mom was scary—were obnoxious, but that was just the way things were. I truly believed that these boys were good people, and that in worrying about their affect on me, my mother simply didn’t understand them. She wasn’t willing to believe in them, she didn’t know them the way I did, she didn’t understand the world I lived in, she had no faith in my judgment. Of course, in retrospect I see the areas for concern. I see how easily I could have gone awry, had I not been blindly forging my own weird path through life, had I not been absolutely dedicated to the idea of escaping my hometown, had I not been more scared of drugs than I was of social ostracism.

Over the years, these boys who surrounded me, who seemed smart even if they weren’t really into school, who seemed to have such good hearts and such potential—some of them have done what they talked about. They’ve moved on, they’ve moved up. And some of them have simply become their parents, living in the same shitty neighborhood, in the same shitty town, tied down to a spouse they don’t love and children they didn’t plan. I don’t mean to imply here that living in a small town or marrying young are de facto evidence that you’ve given up and failed at life. There’s no shame in choosing that life. But the feeling I get from many of these people I once knew is that they didn’t so much choose it as they let it choose them. They took the path of least resistance. Instead of going out and meeting the world and trying for something they wanted, they simply settled for what was there.

For the past few days, all I can think about is this past and how it’s changed, how far we’ve all grown from each other. We left the war, we made our choices. We became citizens, not soldiers bitterly fighting a war we hadn’t signed up for. We look at each other and we recognize the shared experience, the lives we led together years before, but they bear little relation to our lives now. We share nothing any more. And this man who did this horrible thing, at one time he was someone I could have known; he could have easily been among my circle of friends, he could have been one of those boys I believed in implicitly, one of those boys I defended. But now, ten years later, we are not those people any longer. Now I am a woman who thinks deeply about trivial shit like popular culture, and he is a man who ended a boy’s life.

We live long lives, if we’re lucky, and we change greatly across the course of them. But certain critical moments change us more than others: a war, for instance, or those years when we first become adults and start to make our own decisions. We may not always be the people we want to be, but we have more power to change our circumstances. We no longer have one common goal, one common path; we now have a multitude of roads to choose from, roads that lead us away from one another and the space we once called home.

Before I really get into this, I should clarify that I respond to fiction and non-fiction in very distinct ways. I’ve always hated literary criticism because fiction tends to be very emotional for me, and when I love something and really connect with it, I don’t want to talk about syntax and symbolism and shit. With non-fiction, I respond in a more analytical way that allows me to be both passionately in love and capable of critique. So since this is about a novel, it’s not so much critique as it is personal response.

On that note, a quick recap: the book is set in the 1930s, in Montana, and is a coming-of-age story told through the perspective of Jick, the 14-year-old son of a forest ranger (Mac), who is trying to sort out his family’s past. English Creek is a fantastic book, but it meant more to me than just great fiction.

My dad’s people are from Montana, all around Lewistown. There’s still a bunch of them there, although I’ve never visited (I figure the trip for my great-grandmother’s funeral when I was six months old doesn’t count). My parents divorced when I was young, and I grew up without much connection to my father, his family, or their history. Instead, I grew up one of four people with a funny Dutch name (counting my mother and two brothers) in a small town in Southern California, heavily influenced by my mom’s family. They’re good people, but the larger family is neither large nor close. Not to mention that both my grandfathers were career military men, and my parents and their siblings have lived all over the country with no apparent attachment to any one place.

I’ve always been interested in history, especially of the West. As I got older, it seemed shameful that I’d spent so much time studying history and yet I knew almost nothing of my own history. Throughout college and grad school, I talked to both sides of my family more and started doing some casual genealogical research, mostly on my dad’s side (having an unusual name helps narrow down internet searches). Imagine my surprise when I discovered that my father came from an absolutely enormous family in Montana. I discovered the work of Mary Clearman Blew, who’s some kind of second or third cousin. I got in touch with some relatives who were willing to tell me stories and show me pictures.

As a kid, I read Laura Ingalls Wilder and day-dreamed about living in the Old West, homesteading on the plains and traveling by covered wagon. As an adult, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about the West—the mythology, the landscape, the relationship between people and place. What I find most fascinating about my own family history is that incredible sense of place—not just that there’s a place in Montana where people wouldn’t have to ask how to pronounce my last name, but that the people seem to be so connected to that place, a part of it really. The land is more than just a place they used to live. One of these days, I’ll finally get myself together enough to finally make it up to Montana, to see the old family ranches and my great-grandparents’ house in Lewistown (which my great-aunt still owns).

Friends recommended Doig’s work to me for ages. I picked up several of his novels when I found them conveniently in front of me in used bookstores. But up until last year they’d just lingered on my shelf with all the other books I buy and toss on the “to read” pile. And then I finally picked up English Creek, expecting that I’d like it, but not expecting to be blown away. Like I said, it’s a great book. But more than that, the coincidence of time and place makes me feel as though I was reading some small segment of my own ancestral past. My great-grandfather and grandfather would have been of an age with Mac and Jick. My great-grandfather grew up on a ranch; he trained as a surveyor and raised his family in town, but my grandfather spent summers out on the family ranches and both of them would have recognized the life Doig described so well.

There was a line, just an aside really, that went straight through to my heart. “They are beyond our knowing, those once young people who become our parents, which to me has always made them that much more fascinating.” How often I’ve thought the same thing to myself, although generally not as eloquently. I love old photos, and have become the keeper of my family’s collection. I find myself particularly fascinated by a series of pictures of my mother at about 20, only four years before I was born, but looking so utterly unlike the person I grew up with. One of the greatest crimes of time is that you can never know your parents when they are on an equal level with you. And I’ve looked on even older photos with similar feelings, particularly for the people and places I have never known. Sometimes, to entertain myself, I think about those silly college essay questions, the ones about which historical figures you’d most want to meet. There are plenty of famous people I’d like to talk to, but mostly, I’d like to meet my own family. I’d like to ask my great-grandfather Tuffy what it was like to work the railroad in Wyoming; to ask my grandpa Doug why he had “Phyllis” tattooed on his arm when none of his wives had been named Phyllis; to hear all about my great-grandmother Ethel’s wild life, and why my great-grandfather never stopped loving her, even when they’d been divorced for twenty years. I’d like to walk across the ranch with old Abraham, my great-great-grandfather, see the massive Montana sky I’ve heard so much about, and hear him tell me what it was like to start a homestead out there in 1888. And I guess the ultimate point here is that, reading Doig’s work, I feel like I did, just a little bit.

Just some quick hits: I have tons of road songs, but this is my spur-of-the-moment playlist for y’all. Enjoy!

1. Dan Mangan – Road Regrets
2. Bruce Springsteen – Born to Run
3. Ani DiFranco – Gravel
4. Dolly Parton – Travelin’ Thru
5. Ray LaMontagne – Jolene
6. Gram Parsons with Emmylou Harris – Return of the Grievous Angel
7. Tom Waits – Home I’ll Never Be
8. Cake Like – My Guy

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

1. Drive-By Truckers – Thanksgiving Filter (acoustic pre-release version)
2. Merle Haggard – If We Make It Through December
3. Vince Guaraldi Trio – Christmas Time Is Here
4. The Everly Brothers – Christmas Eve Can Kill You
5. Low – Just Like Christmas
6. Rilo Kiley – Xmas Cake
7. Frightened Rabbit – It’s Christmas So We’ll Stop
8. Prince & the Revolution – Another Lonely Christmas
9. Johnny & Jon – Christmas in Vietnam
10. The Kinks – Father Christmas
11. The Mr. T Experience – Merry Fucking Christmas
12. Blink-182 – I Won’t Be Home for Christmas
13. The Pogues – Fairytale of New York
14. The Decemberists – Please Daddy (Don’t Get Drunk This Christmas)
15. Judy Garland – Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas
16. Bing Crosby – I’ll Be Home for Christmas
17. Fats Domino – Please Come Home for Christmas
18. Otis Redding – White Christmas
19. Trombone Shorty – O Holy Night

Armistice Day is one of those rare civic holidays that’s celebrated in many countries, in some form or another. The French and Belgians call it Armistice Day; the Poles call it Polish Independence Day; the Italians celebrate it on November 4. The UK and Commonwealth countries call it Remembrance Day and have expanded it to include all veterans, although special emphasis is still placed on WWI.

In the United States, November 11 was originally called Armistice Day. It became Veteran’s Day in 1954, expanded to include all American veterans, and from 1971 to 1977 it was actually celebrated in October. I would argue (although I could be wrong) that most Americans no longer associate the day with World War I, and the fact that we now call it Veteran’s Day and place only incidental emphasis on the day’s connection to World War I reveals the great discrepancies between how the U.S. and Europe experienced and remember that war.

In the U.S., when we talk about the 20^th century and American experiences of war, we tend to focus on two points: the Good War (WWII) and the Polarizing War (Vietnam). These two wars are anchoring points for a significant period in American history, and the generations that participated in them are attached to them in deep and meaningful ways. The stories we tell about them tend to play up the heroic role we played in WWII and the complicated role we played in Vietnam. World War I is barely even on our cultural radar, which is not surprising given that Americans only saw active duty there for about a year.

Now if you take a class on modern Europe, this is not the story of World War I that you will get. 1914 is the great dividing year, between the long 19^th century and the short 20^th century. It’s a watershed year; World War I was called the “Great War” and the “war to end all wars,” because its scale, its scope, its destructive power, was unlike anything seen in Europe at the time. World War I brought down empires on the continent and overseas and gave birth to a myriad of Eastern European nation states (this is why November 11 is Polish Independence Day). World War I brought on the Russian Revolution and the creation of the USSR. Social and cultural trends that Americans associate with WWII—like increased numbers of women in formerly male-dominated jobs—happened in Europe during WWI. An entire generation of men died in the trenches; whole swaths of France and Belgium were destroyed.

The Europe that emerged in 1918 was not the Europe that went to war in 1914. In the wake of such destruction, Europeans looked to rebuild and to defend. At the same time, there was no reconciliation. There was a great amount of tension and resentment between France and Germany. France was convinced the Germans would invade them and built the Maginot Line, which was supposed to prevent another bout of trench warfare. And the way the war ended, many Germans felt that they’d been betrayed by their government, that they had not in fact surrendered, and that the terms of the Versailles Treaty were far too harshly punitive (they were).

Meanwhile the new nation-states in the east were instituting some of the most liberal constitutional governments in the world at the time and trying to figure out what to do about their “minority problem.” In this new world, every ethnicity was supposed to have it’s own proper nation, but the legacy of the Russian, German, and Austrian empires was a mixed population throughout Central and Eastern Europe. No matter where the dividing lines were drawn, there would always be Poles in Prussia, Ukrainians in Poland, Germans in Czechoslovakia, Hungarians and Romanians in Transylvania, and Jews and Gypsies everywhere. These tensions, combined with worldwide economic problems, would lead directly to the authoritarian regimes of the 1930s and then to World War II.

In America, World War I is a blip we barely acknowledge and World War II far more of a stand-alone event. After our brief involvement in the Great War, the U.S. pulled back and returned to a more isolationist stance. The next time war came to Europe, it raged for two years before the U.S. got involved. America’s wars lasted from 1917-1918 and 1941-1945; Europe’s lasted from 1914-1918 and 1939-1945. And far more importantly, they happened in Europe. The U.S. came out of the WWII triumphant, economically powerful, and in a position to be the great savior of the modern world. Meanwhile, Europe had weathered two enormously destructive wars. Cities and farms were destroyed, people were displaced, society had to be rebuilt. Post-war Europe was not the same suburban idyll that many of us imagination post-war America was.

I’m not trying to say that it’s bad or wrong that we don’t commemorate World War I the same way that the main combatants do. It wasn’t a very important war for our country, and each society focuses on its own defining moments more than those of others. However, it was globally an important event, and I think that, in addition to thinking of our veterans today, we should also take a moment and think about what this day used to commemorate, and what it still does for many people.

–

if you want a good read on modern European history that deals with many of these topics, I would suggest Mark Mazower’s Dark Continent.

I had intended to embed some video for this song, but youtube has failed me, so I’m just posting the lyrics instead (after the jump):

Mary Gauthier, “Drag Queens in Limousines”

I hated high school, I prayed it would end.
The jocks and their girls, it was their world, I didn’t fit in.
Mama said, “Baby, it’s the best school that money can buy,
Hold your head up, be strong, c’mon Mary, try.”

I stole mama’s car on a Sunday and left home for good,
Moved in with my friends in the city, in a bad neighborhood.
Charles was a dancer, he loved the ballet,
And Kimmy sold pot and read Kerouac and Hemingway.

Drag queens in limousines
Nuns in blue jeans
Dreamers with big dreams
All took me in

Charly and I flipped burgers to cover the rent
And Bourbons at happy hour for 35 cents
One day before work we got drunk and danced in the rain
They fired us both,
They said, “Don’t ya’ll come back here again.”

Drag queens in limousines
Nuns in blue jeans
Dreamers with big dreams
All took me in

My dad went to college, and he worked for the state
He never quit nothing and he wanted me to graduate.
My brother and sister both play in the marching band
They tell me they miss me, but I know they don’t understand.
Sometimes you got do, what you gotta do
And hope that the people you love, will catch up with you.

Yea drag queens in limousines
Nuns in blue jeans
Dreamers with big dreams
Poets and AWOL marines
Actors and bar flyies
Writers with dark eyes
Drunks that philosophize

A big part of the reason I like this song so much is that, despite the fact that I never knew any drag queens and I didn’t drop out of high school, it really puts me in mind of my college years, in all the best ways. There was a lot of crazy ass shit that went on in those years, and I certainly wouldn’t wish to do it all again. But at the same time, there was this sense of openness, of possibility. Coming from a small(ish) town, I didn’t really have much concept of what the world could be. I knew there was a lot more out there, but I had no idea just how much I didn’t know. And so I crash landed in Berkeley at 18, wide-eyed with wonder. And while my own experience wasn’t quite as bohemian as what this song lays out, I knew my fair share of punks and homeless kids, drug dealers and aspiring writers, enough for me to see my own world in this lyrical one.

For me, this song is all about that first wild taste of freedom, which is something you can never really get back. When I was younger, I used to be so skeptical that anyone could think those late teen years (especially any that overlapped high school) could be “the best years of their lives.” I understand that feeling better now, that desire to be poised right on the precipice of your life with nothing but potential. There’s no baggage yet, no disappointments.

There’s also that element of sadness here, of learning to be yourself even when that doesn’t fit very well with the people you love. It’s something that I still struggle with. Although I love my family, many of my encounters with them lead me to wondering why I can’t just be more like them, why I can’t want the kinds of things they did, why I have to be the one who is different. There’s no an easy answer to these questions, if in fact there are answers at all, it’s just something you have to keep working at, something you learn to live with.

Of course, you still couldn’t pay me to be 18 again. There are days I am flat appalled at the memory of my youthful stupidity. But it’s nice to look back on it with the rose colored glasses of a song, on occasion.