Re-vising America

Another day, another train. Zooming through grey countryside which turns to semi industrial mess which turns back to countryside, although the countryside is losing with every mile On a New Jersey commuter train to New York city where I’ll meet Dad in Penn station by the Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Ahh, two things I love deeply: Dad and Krispy Kremes!

I have stuffed my too heavy bags in the skinny baggage place on the train, and will struggle to get them out again. My arms and back are sore from dragging them from place to place yesterday. Only nine more days to drag them. The conductor comes on with her flat American accent and warns us that this train will become extremely crowded. She says those words with an emphasis that fills my heart with dread. Now it’s empty and I can save a seat for the seriously unlikely event that Dad will catch this train too. At Newark, I’ll give up the window seat, but I’ll retain this perch on the aisle where I can see the rogue who tries to de-wedge my two bags and steal the books and chocolate I’ve already purchased.

Today I did the MBTI for a group at Princeton. They were lovely and I felt the delight at the work I get to do. They pay me to be in a room with interesting people who are trying to be better together. Who could be luckier than me?

I am experiencing the US so differently this time. This is my third time back since I moved here nearly a year and a half ago, and the first in 9 months. And I am seeing it in a new way, with eyes I haven’t used before. It is easy to complain about the US, to complain about the loud Americans. My flight from California to the east coast was classic: the flight attendants treated the customers badly, the customers treated the flight attendants badly, the woman next to me talked endlessly on her cell phone, without pausing for breath, until we pushed away from the jetway. I told Michael that it was a caricature of life in the US and he pointed out that there was no caricature—this WAS life in the US. True enough.

Now, one train ride over, I am siting on the chilly floor outside Krispy Kreme stand in Penn station, the last sweetness of a chocolate iced doughnut lingering on my tongue. Dad’s plane was delayed, he said when he rang from the airport, so he’ll be late here. And so I have the odd, floor’s-eye view of America you get from this train station. What a strange and beautiful and horrible country.

A homeless man shuffles in slippers inches from my face, laughing uproariously at something in his head, stinking of booze and urine as he pushes his walker right by me. A young Asian woman taps him on the shoulder to offer him money. He laughs again and wheel-shuffles on. Business men in suits come by, talking importantly on their cell phones, their roller-bags rumbling on the ground behind them. Women in high heels tap tap by, effortlessly moving four inches off the ground with $1000 laptop bags thrown casually over their shoulders. That woman is carrying a cup of Starbucks coffee in one hand and a smallish tree in the other. This African American red-capped porter walks by with a Latino blind man and a White blind woman with her guide dog. The dog looks alert and friendly, and he and I are nearly nose to nose as they walk by. Some people sprint through the station, bags and coats streaming behind them, and I catch a tiny glimpse of the plotline of their lives. In a movie, their making or missing this train would have key significance. How about in their actual lives? The strolling strangers glance at me curiously, as I sit in my work clothes with my bags in front of the Krispy Kreme. They can’t place me with the homeless people or with the business people. I understand their plight, though, as I had the woman next to me on the floor marked as homeless until her friend came over, dragging her suitcase and bringing her dinner. Watch your assumptions in New York City.

I can’t decide whether it’s this country that’s different or whether I’m different here. Here I smile at strangers, and their faces light in a return smile. I helped an old African-American woman carry her many fast food items from pick-up counter to cashier, and she beamed at me. I chatted with the fellow making my sandwich and gave directions to someone who wasn’t sure about the commuter rail. I’m discovering that these crowds of people make angry clashes more possible, but they also make friendly encounters more possible. Michael and I used to have a game that we played—we’d catch someone’s eye with a broad smile and warm hello and see whether we could get them to smile back. It’s not a game we play in NZ where the people are less likely to be outrageously ugly to each other—and also less likely to be particularly friendly with strangers. I don’t think I do this in New Zealand, don’t think I carry things for strangers or offer directions. Is that me, culturally turtled, knowing that my accent marks me as a foreigner and potential tourist and shy about that?

Or is it that this place is simply more open, more out there with emotions and ideas and words everywhere? Perhaps the US draws out from me some of my more open qualities too, and New Zealand draws more of my quietness to the surface. As I worked with the lovely people from Princeton--a group so mixed in age and race and culture--and I think Yes, there is an American dream. It's tarnished, and it is NOT an equal opportunity dream maker, but it is an amazing goal to reach for in any case. It turns out I do love this country and what it stands for--just as I can't stand this country sometimes, or what it loves. I am a jumbled, conflicted mess, here on the floor of Penn Station, and that mess is reflected in the coils of people swirling around me. There are ways that I do not belong here in this over-crowded, overly-powerful country. And there are clearly ways that I am now home.