The Belly of the Beast

Our life in Southern California was lived in a spectacular bubble. Every day we woke up the sun was shining. Waves peeled along miles of pristine beaches, lined with stately homes positioned to view pods of dolphins and gasp worthy sunsets. When we weren’t shopping the eye popping bounty of the year round farmer’s markets, we were biking to one of the many local cafés or vineyards. For the most part, our neighbors held the same liberal views as we did, but even if they didn’t, we all seemed to feel heard and coexisted peacefully. We volunteered on the PTAs together, participated in all the beach clean-ups, attended the community fundraisers. While there was the occasional flag flying truck or flagrantly aggressive bumper sticker, most political beliefs were discussed, not shouted.

I knew our life in California was life in a societal bubble. But I didn’t realize the depths to which that bubble was hurting us all until we drove across the United States.

We began to see the edges of our bubble only a few hours into the trip. The very first indication was a passing rain shower in the eastern most part of the state. As the water poured over the window, Michael, my co-pilot, and I smiled at each other. I drove for a full two minutes with water streaming down the windshield before I remembered that the car came equipped with wipers. In almost a decade of living in SoCal, I can probably count the number of times I’d driven in the rain on two hands. And only after leaving did this truly sink in.

As we made our way across California and into Arizona that first day, the topography was the most notable change: lines of palm trees gave way to thirsty brown hills and stretches of highway that led like arrows into the distance. There were no housing developments, no lines of stately manors. Occasionally we’d drive through a town with single story concrete block houses that didn’t look much different than the garages attached to them. And all with pick-up trucks parked in the driveways. Dirt instead of lawns. Different, but nothing all that unexpected. It was the hand-painted signage that first appeared in the vast nothingness of the Mohave desert and then with more frequency as we crossed thru the Bible Belt that made me stop and think. Who made these? And how did you get them over that barbed wire and into that field? Signs like these staggered down the highway:

“Liberals hate America”
”Liberals hate god”
”Our lord and savior Jesus Christ”

or my favorite on the side of the road in Indiana that asked if we were finally sick of being fed liberal lies… and had spelled ‘liberal’ incorrectly.

Had I been driving by myself, it would have been easy to ignore, laugh off, shake my head and turn the dial up on my Smartless podcast. Once upon a time in this country, I’m sure the best course of action would be to roll eyes and move on. But driving with Michael by my side, I began to register a physical response to the signs. I noticed as a sign came into view in the distance, my body would tense, not knowing what words we would see next. As we made our way through Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Oklahoma, Missouri, the signs took on a decidedly thematic approach: God, Guns, Drugs (Pot), Sex, and Lawyers. It was not a picture of our country I was happy to paint for my child.

If California gas stations are a snapshot of the lifestyle (Tesla chargers, <$6 per gallon, Starbucks or maybe a Jamba Juice attached), gas stations on the road were cross sections of life in the Bible Belt. In Oklahoma, unleaded gasoline was $3.87 per gallon. My sister-in-law explained that if you collected points through their rewards program you could get your gas price down to $1.75 a gallon. Every station offered at least one hat or tshirt with Jesus’ insights on life and an impressive display of vape and beef jerky flavors. By Missouri, I’d drank my weight in coffee and iced tea and went searching for sparkling water. (To be fair, my family might have a small La Croix addiction.) I found three floor to ceiling coolers stocked with energy drinks, but no seltzer. I finally asked a clerk who told me, “yes, of course we have seltzer” and led me to where I could purchase a case of White Claws for my journey.

And the bathrooms. My very brave trans kid, the same one who marched without hesitation into the men’s room at a gas station in Nowhere, California, refused to enter any bathroom without his father once we crossed over into Arizona. This might have something to do with not only the road signs, but the frequency of aggressive bumper stickers we encountered:

“Let’s Go Brandon”
“Guns Don’t Kill People, Abortions Kill People”
or my favorite, the sticker series that indicates a family, except each member is represented by an automatic weapon.

He didn’t go to the restroom by himself again until we hit Massachusetts. Imagine having to ask your parent to accompany you to the toilet when you’re a sophomore in high school.

The restaurants along the way also told a tale very different than life outside of California. Somewhere in the wilds of New Mexico we found we needed to eat more than trail mix to get through the remaining five hours of driving. We stopped at a Wendy’s because the Sonic was backed up with traffic due to a person begging for money positioned in the middle of the entrance. Wendy’s was featuring their Summer Strawberry Chicken Salad. Sure it was a Wendy’s but I’d just left California where there are Subways with actual avocado trees in front of their stores. How bad could it be? And besides, who doesn’t want something a little fresh after two states worth of “Sweet and Hot” jerky? So of course, I went for it. The lettuce, almonds, and chicken seemed real enough, but the “strawberries”? A heaping scoop of strawberry sundae topping.

Mile after mile, state after state, it became unavoidably clear that the people living in these states—the southwest, midwest and mid-Atlantic—were accessing a different version of American life than me. At least along the highways. This version seemed to run on sugar, caffeine and religion. There was a palpable undercurrent of dissatisfaction and a screaming to be heard.

I loved my California bubble. We moved to Cambridge, Massachusetts, what might possibly be considered an even MORE defined bubble. (Yesterday, I walked through the Harvard campus to go watch the crew boats race on the Charles River and then picked up my order from the organic dry cleaner.) There is nothing wrong with living in a bubble. The issue is when we cease to acknowledge what is happening outside of that bubble, or even worse, judge and possibly demonize what is not included within our own. There is so much rhetoric in this country about who “the other” is; how they live, what they think. All bubbles are guilty of this infraction. Driving through the Bible Belt, I tried hard not to place judgement and view each encounter with fresh eyes. Why is Mountain Dew taking up significant real estate in the gas station, but there isn’t one fresh food item? Why are the only restaurants shoveling out over processed, cheaply made food? Why is all the messaging telling people they need to be saved? And if they can’t, here’s a great deal on guns/a smokin’ new dispensary/some fantastic tits and ass that will help make life better?

I am so mad and heartsick for this country after that trip. How are people supposed to react when Monster Energy Drink, Taco Bell and The Pleasure Palace are the players in their day-to-day? And every time you turn on a television or scroll a newsfeed the beautiful state of California and its açai bowl loving residents are talking about how we need to change the world. Of course we hate each other.

I know I’m way oversimplifying and the conclusions I’m drawing aren’t exactly fair. We skimmed like pebbles across the surface of a pond by just touching down in various gas stations and restaurants across those regions. And that is somewhat my point. We all need to get out of our bubbles and go figure out exactly what is happening in this country. We need to stop shouting at each other about things like critical race theory and banning books in school. What we need to do is sit down with one another, look each other in the eye and ask, “Are you ok?” and “What do you need?”, but we also need to say, “Hey, I’m hurting too”. The reality is none of this is about what bathroom my kid gets to use. This is about people feeling the effects of being used and abandoned by their government, the corporations and the media.

I pray for us every night that we find our way out of this and to a place of community with love. It is very possible we will have to first live through this rising storm, and fingers crossed, we make it though. Better together.