{"id":287,"date":"2014-04-15T14:34:05","date_gmt":"2014-04-15T14:34:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/blog.sandralangston.com\/?p=287"},"modified":"2014-04-15T14:34:05","modified_gmt":"2014-04-15T14:34:05","slug":"my-country-tis-of-thee","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/blog.sandralangston.com\/?p=287","title":{"rendered":"My country tis of thee"},"content":{"rendered":"

I heard a song on the radio tonight, a woman singing about “America,” \u00a0lamenting its propensity to become ever more unsatisfactory. \u00a0 I cannot disagree with her criticism, yet maybe she is just too close to be able to appreciate its positive nuances. \u00a0Or maybe there is another song which sings the praises, I don’t know. \u00a0\u00a0It made me think about what it means to love a country, an abstract ideal of a place contained within corporeal geographical\u00a0boundaries.<\/p>\n

You might think that I, having abandoned my country, would be less than patriotic. \u00a0It seemed almost effortless\u00a0to go elsewhere. \u00a0Actually I was born in Canada but was thoroughly absorbed into the United States by the age of about eight, whether by indoctrination or simple distraction I don’t\u00a0know. \u00a0 I do know that when I was born my mother was gnashing her teeth at\u00a0the snow and darkness,\u00a0waiting for the day when she could return to a place as close to Oklahoma as her husband’s professional life would allow. \u00a0 \u00a0I know this necessity was \u00a0critical \u00a0\u00a0because we lived in a motel in Austin for a couple of months until my father could maneuver his way into\u00a0a job at the University. \u00a0He arrived\u00a0confident that he would be indispensable\u00a0 here, and his wife’s urgent need for her\u00a0“America”, as soon as possible, lit a fire under\u00a0him.<\/p>\n

I think it killed my mother’s soul that I decamped as\u00a0I did, allowing myself to be absorbed in the form of \u00a0duffel bags and boxes into the Italian miasma.\u00a0 Surely at first she couldn’t foresee the months stretching into years and decades. \u00a0 She and I had never liked Italy, briefly visited twice in my childhood. \u00a0There was nothing of value I could see here; \u00a0just shabby truckloads of tiresome\u00a0paintings and architecture, \u00a0broken statuary and annoying men who stared for too long. \u00a0 She was forever a rural Oklahoma girl, who, in her own time, could not wait to get as far away from home\u00a0as possible. \u00a0 She was always much too \u00a0diplomatic \u00a0to tell me how my choices had hurt her. \u00a0 I wonder how her mother, in her time, had thought of her daughter’s own wanderlust and rejection of life on the farm. \u00a0I am betting that she\u00a0\u00a0understood.<\/p>\n

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\"143\"<\/a><\/p>\n

“Home Sweet Home,” \u00a0mixed media on paper<\/p>\n

It is a terrible thing to try and express\u00a0\u00a0provincial metaphors which\u00a0no one shares. \u00a0Or crack a lame joke which is met with blank stares. \u00a0Or endeavor to recount a wonderful experience which\u00a0becomes tedious\u00a0in the telling, as\u00a0every nuance must be explained in plodding precision, \u00a0patiently tolerated by the listeners as long as\u00a0\u00a0it does not go on too long. \u00a0 A shared culture is a wonderful thing, do not underestimate its charms!<\/p>\n

Imagine\u00a0telling a story without being allowed to use\u00a0certain ideographical \u00a0expressions, \u00a0or word forms such as pronouns or adjectives. \u00a0Who was this Jackie Gleason fellow? \u00a0What do you mean, the \u00a0five second rule? \u00a0Why would a person be a potato \u00a0on a sofa? \u00a0Why do you insist on using those bucket-sized drinking glasses? \u00a0 \u00a0A friend once provoked\u00a0me by saying that I could never really understand a certain Italian singer\/songwriter because I lacked the baggage, the cultural knowledge, \u00a0the historical background. \u00a0So right he was. \u00a0 Intellectually I can understand the meaning, certainly the musical sounds, but\u00a0what I hear is unavoidably different, somehow skewed and hollower than the artist intended.<\/p>\n

I think that living in a different place, a culture where much cannot be taken for granted until it is\u00a0internalized, creates a unique appreciation of \u00a0provenance. \u00a0 Imagine a woman who finds the presence of children irritating \u00a0up until the day she finds herself unable to contemplate life without her own. \u00a0Suddenly she understands that her offspring have given her a stable and sustaining\u00a0anchor, and she is able to love all those other children as well. \u00a0She knows what they are, is able to empathise with them. Being away from my home has allowed me, as I came to absorb the Italian culture, to appreciate my American-ness. \u00a0 My country\u00a0has become so much more important to me in its absence because I have been able to\u00a0distill my ideas of it through a foreign filter. \u00a0 It is almost intoxicating.<\/p>\n

So this is how \u00a0I have come to be a fiercely patriotic person, and while I am forever attached to Italy with many roots, it is the United States of America that I love. \u00a0Can one really love a country? \u00a0No, probably not, but I carry around inside me a solid and comforting load of\u00a0 shapes, smells, stories, and conventions\u00a0that are uniquely my own and are dearer to me than most things. \u00a0My hope is that my children will also absorb this love and weave a truly wonderful tapestry out of \u00a0their double load of culture. \u00a0Wouldn’t it be fantastic if they married\u00a0members of yet other cultures? \u00a0I am prepared to travel.<\/p>\n

\"252<\/a><\/p>\n

“The Choice” \u00a0pencil on paper, \u00a028 x 40 inches<\/p>\n

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