The Last Word On Nothing

After seven years living amongst our neighbors to the south, I have recently returned “home” to the US of A. I say “home” because I’m a West Coast kid and now I live in Baltimore, which is nothing like the West Coast. Honestly, I culture-shocked less moving from California to Mexico City.

And also, because it’s nothing like when I left. What the hell did you guys do to the place while I was gone? Can I not leave for seven years without having to worry about the whole country going to pot? This is why we can’t have nice things.

I was driving down the freeway the other day (in an automobile that I actually own, which still feels bizarre) and I noticed a woman in a sedan whose bumper was covered in homemade stickers about impeaching the sitting president, who I’m told is some kind of reality TV star, though I have never seen his show.

I noticed her because it was kind of cute. They seemed to be strips of Xerox paper with messages handwritten on them and taped to her car. It rains a lot in Maryland and I found myself wondering how many times she has to re-apply them. It seemed like a serious commitment to a bumper sticker.

Out of nowhere, this big truck with a “Ducks Unlimited” sticker (off the shelf, not homemade) comes barreling towards her like he’s going to rear-end her but stops short. Then he blares his horn, goes around her, and slams on the brakes. It was scary, even two lanes over. This goes on for a while and then he tears off.

It made me sad, for two reasons. One, obviously, we are a nation divided. But not divided like in the “Mommy and Daddy are having a little argument but we both still love you very much” kind of way. This is more like “Mommy doesn’t talk to Daddy without a lawyer present because he’s filthy scumbag who puts monsters under your bed.” It’s like that stage where all your friends and family would see your divorce as a relief.

And second, because I’d like to think that truck once belonged to a pretty good guy. He didn’t have anarchy stickers or SS stickers or even an NRA sticker. He had a single Ducks Unlimited sticker. Now, I might be reading too much into this 10-second encounter but I always saw Ducks Unlimited as the crossover people. Yeah, they love their guns but they have protected more bird habitat than any other organization in the country. I always thought it would be a fun group to join.

Ducks Unlimited is like the Garth Brooks of right-leaning advocacy. It’s okay for urban lefties to like them.* I went to college in a part of Southern Illinois where you can literally drive a Chevy down to a levy and drink whiskey with some good old boys. The kind of place where preppy college kids go rock climbing side-by-side with paramilitary militias practicing for the zombie apocalypse and no one thinks it’s weird.

And while I never acquired a taste for Michelob Lite, I liked all the people I met there. There was a sense that rednecks and hippies annoyed the hell out of each other but had more in common than set us apart. Like fly fishing and hiking boot preference. And Ducks Unlimited. I certainly didn’t see a “Dole/Kemp” sticker and think “Let’s run that car off the road.”

People say that the current hostility between the left and right was a long time in coming but I don’t think so. Maybe it’s because I’ve been away from my home so long but it feels more like something that was done to us than a natural progression.

Kind of like the hostility between the US and Mexico. How has Mexico become the scapegoat for everything that’s wrong in my country? They’re not our enemies, they are totally dependent and intertwined with us. I can’t tell you how many people asked me questions that basically boiled down to “Why do the United Statesians (which is what they call us) hate Mexico?”

I have no answer. Cowboys, burritos, Edward James Olmos – all good things trace back to Mexico. Driving through Texas with my dad in the passenger’s seat, my cat on the center console, and everything I own in the trailer behind me, it occurred to me that people hundreds of miles north of the border have more in common with Mexico than they do with Baltimore.

That disappeared when I got pulled over in Tennessee by a beefy young cop with a twang straight out of central casting. As soon as he heard “Mexico,” he pulled me out of the cab and called for backup.** As a beefier cop tried to crawl over my pile of boxes, the other one lectured me about how dangerous Mexico is (“I know,” I responded, “I’m a journalist”) and how he was on the front lines protecting the country from cartels. I got the sense that his impression of Mexico and cartels came from bad Mel Gibson movies.

And now I hear that we hate Canada too. What the hell, people? We need healing in this country, not more enemies. I don’t know how and I don’t know where but we need to heal. So if that cop who pulled me over is out there, and he’s got a few minutes, let’s get together. We’ll go down to the levee, crack a Michelob and eat some authentic tacos al pastor. Hell, we could even shoot a few ducks if you want.

* This does apply to Garth’s “Chris Gaines” phase. That is not okay to like.

** My favorite part of the encounter was when he asked me to “restrain my animal” for fear that it might leap at his face. The cat was practically asleep. He doesn’t really do leaping.

Photo Credit: Randy Robertson