Stories that can only be told from the land of the free, home of the brave.

American Stories

I was warned, but how often do we heed warning signs?

After reviewing my hormone levels and ultrasound, the doctor said it could go either way—a baby or a loss. He projected seven weeks, but the ultrasound put me at five. When I asked what I could do, he smiled and said to “just wait in agony.”

Months before the positive pregnancy test, my partner and I had agreed to prepare. I took prenatals, exercised regularly and tracked my period and ovulation dates. When I missed my period, I was convinced that I had a hormone imbalance, which would affect my ability to get pregnant. I had already experienced hormonal issues, as well as a surgery to remove endometrial polyps. Even after the doctor told me the news, I asked if he was sure because I didn’t want to get myself excited. On the ride home from that first appointment, I felt everything: disbelief, joy, anxiety.

A few days later, still processing the pregnancy news, Politico leaked the potential overturn of Roe v. Wade. I was shocked but not appalled. I read through news articles and various social media posts. I thought about the people who would be impacted by this monumental decision. Then, I went about my day, checking emails, checking my underwear for unwanted blood, checking labels to confirm everything was pregnancy safe. Not for one second did I think this news impacted me directly.

The day after the story broke, I started spotting. Brown, according to the internet, meant nothing to worry about. The next day, the spotting increased, turning bright red. The nurse insisted I come in. My partner offered to miss his work meeting. When I said no, he offered to sit outside in the parking lot. He was stressed enough with work, and I figured it would be easier to handle alone. I assured him I would be fine. Hours later, I was in the office with a white sheet doing little to cover my naked thighs. The doctor checked my cervix, which was closed, then sent me down the hall for an ultrasound.

I had researched for hours and hours, desperate to know every sign and symptom, ingest every intimate, heart-wrenching story. Some women had bled throughout their pregnancies without complications. Some had been given bad news, only to show up weeks later with a healthy heartbeat. These rare, inspiring stories reassured me, kept me calm, right up until the moment the technician put the probe between my legs.

“There’s nothing there,” I said aloud, but she wouldn’t confirm it. She called the doctor while I changed in the bathroom.

My partner and I had talked through the possibility of a miscarriage. When the levels were low and rising too slowly, we changed our language from “when” to “if,” knowing the chances weren’t in our favor. Still, I took prenatal vitamins, cut out caffeine, bought pregnancy-safe toiletries, subscribed to a prenatal fitness program, bought stretch mark cream and researched the best baby products. I refused to buy anything baby-specific, as if that would protect me from the potential heartache, but already, I had allowed myself to envision our life together.

When the doctor gave me the news, the words came out in choppy sentences, as if I were standing in a crowded bar listening to a drunken story. I heard “blighted ovum,” “can’t confirm yet,” “not official,” “you’ll probably pass it on your own.” I nodded, but I was devastated and terrified. “Keep your ultrasound appointment. If needed, we can start you on medication.” I nodded continuously, holding tight to the armor that surrounded my body.

Then, the technician interrupted him to say, “I’m so sorry.” In this moment of seriousness, this woman was choosing to acknowledge the emotions—my emotions—and just like that, I was disarmed, the armor stripped. Tears pooled in my eyes. “Don’t beat yourself up,” the doctor said as the technician handed me a tissue. “This is not your fault.”

I was born and raised Catholic. My parents had four priests on the altar at their wedding, all of whom were family members. We kept holy water next to the condiments in our fridge. Before every major road trip, we said a decade of the rosary. When it stormed, we imagined God was in the clouds bowling. Every night before bed, I prayed to my guardian angel. As a teenager, I wore a purity ring and wrote letters to my future husband.

Pregnancy before marriage was my mother’s greatest fear for me, her only daughter. I would begin to warn her of important news, only for her to jump to the conclusion that I was pregnant. No news could be as awful as that. Not once did she worry about sexual assault or cancer. Just pregnancy. I’d secretly wonder what would happen if I actually got pregnant, but I was too cautious, paranoid, guilt-ridden. I refused to have sex until my early 20s and only then because I met a guy I thought I would marry. Pregnancy terrified me. Even when I wasn’t having vaginal sex, a missed period made me anxious. If at any point I got pregnant, I would have the baby—no questions asked.

In a strict Catholic household, you don’t have to be told what to believe; you inherit beliefs like you would jewelry. We didn’t believe in feminism, always voted Republican and celebrated shotgun weddings. Abortion was unfathomable, inhumane. We didn’t even mention the word. It was far too dirty, like “Jesus Christ” out of context or “divorce.”

For many years, I lived naively, but the more I learned, the more I unlearned. The more people I met, the more I realized that my inherited beliefs didn’t account for every person, every experience. Imagine unraveling yourself from a roll of packing tape. You pull slowly, steadily yanking at stray hairs, tugging your skin, until you're bare, until there’s nothing left but your body in its natural, raw state. That’s what it felt like to pull myself away from the church and every belief that I’d been taught. The pain of that extraction is still there, but now, I can speak out against the church, argue with relatives and remind my parents that their beliefs contradict morality.

I came around to abortion because I understood it was a necessity. Not only could it save a woman’s life but some people had no other options—no money, support or community. Until our government could offer comprehensive support to every new mother, every newborn, then we needed abortion to be legal. And yet, deep inside, abortion still felt wrong to me. It felt like a last resort; an option when you’ve exhausted all other options. I didn’t yet believe, wholeheartedly, that everyone deserved the right to an abortion, no matter their situation.

According to the doctor, I would bleed heavily for four to five hours and experience some period-like cramping, and then I would have light spotting. If the heavy bleeding continued beyond that point, then I would need to go to the emergency room. 

After work, I closed my computer, ordered Thai food and watched Top Chef from the beginning. I had large menstrual pads from a previous surgery but no Tylenol. Surely, I’d be fine without.

With period cramps, you feel a fullness and dull, achy pain. This was sharp, sudden. It felt like someone implanted metal springs into my uterus and was pressing and releasing, repeatedly and without warning. I couldn’t find a comfortable position and couldn’t relieve the pain, so I stood, walked, stretched, lowered myself to the yoga mat, pressed my upper body against a table. My partner watched helplessly.

I bled and contracted for the next 12 hours. I watched holiday baking shows, and listened to a podcast on miscarriage. One woman bled for countless days before going to the emergency room, only to be told it wasn’t over and they couldn’t do anything for her. I feared that I would hemorrhage, go to sleep and never wake up again. I called the obstetrics department of the hospital at 1 a.m. just to make sure I wasn’t dying. The woman couldn’t give me medical advice but assured me that I would be OK.

Throughout the night, I slashed the sheets in anger, kicked my legs in frustration, propped myself in child’s pose and set an alarm every two hours to check and change my pad. The grief settled into my body as I writhed in pain. In the morning, I attempted to brush my teeth but couldn’t stand without keeling over. Crouching on the bathroom floor, I begged for it to be over. I told my partner if this ever happened again, I wanted a D&C.

I got into my car that morning and waddled into CVS to buy a pain reliever. On the way, I passed an elementary school during the morning rush. Mothers, young and old, held their children’s hands, pulling them toward the school. How many, I wondered, had endured this? I swallowed the pills in my car and went back home to work. I sat through meetings with a blanket wrapped around my waist and took breaks to lie down, cry and recompose myself. 

The pain subsided, but I didn’t pass the sac or placenta until the next day, the Saturday before Mother’s Day. I stared, dumbfounded, before taking a photo and then wrapping up the placenta in the pad and putting it gently into a Ziploc bag before throwing it away. Showing up to my parents’ house the next day, with period underwear and a large overnight pad under my sweater dress, I listened to my sister-in-law complain about her pregnancy discomfort and dutifully agreed to help my brother with dishes so the mothers could chat on the couch.

To the world, I was still unmarried and childless. It didn’t matter that I was in my 30s, in a happy relationship and planning for the future. It didn’t matter that I was silently miscarrying. “If you want kids, you should probably get married soon,” my mother reminds me constantly. “Even if you want kids, you may not be able to have them,” I want to scream. 

If only people knew what others were suffering through—but we refuse to talk about the realities of pregnancy, loss and raising a baby in a country that fails to properly support new mothers and babies with minimal paid leave, expensive child care and inaccessible, expensive medical care.

All around this country, people are waiting for the bleeding to stop or the bleeding to start, miscarrying at home without a partner or support system, avoiding the doctor’s office because of transportation, work, the inability to pay or fear of judgment, having unprotected sex because they can’t access or afford contraception, hemorrhaging without a hospital nearby, dreading having a baby but unable to abort, driving cross-country to get medical attention. What are we doing to protect them and their bodies? We’re trying to take away their rights.

I passed it beautifully, according to the doctor. Beautifully. No tissue had been left. There was nothing left to do but wait for my hCG levels to drop, my cycle to return. I already knew I was lucky. My experience paled in comparison to so many others. I had no complications or emergencies. Still, I felt wrecked. Even with a dedicated partner who willingly checked the blood levels on my pad and listened to my complaints, miscarrying was one of the loneliest experiences I have ever had.

My doctor told me I could try again at any time. The thought made me want to curl into a ball and disappear. I simply nodded, reminding myself that he did this for a living. After handing me the final paperwork, he said, “I’ll see you when you’re pregnant again.”

I got into my car, feeling as if I’d just worked a double shift on a Saturday night. I had everything I needed to get through this—a loving partner, a large team of medical experts, insurance and the extra money needed to pay for out-of-pocket expenses. I didn’t need medication, surgery. I felt—and still feel—so much pain, so much grief, but I had no additional burdens, no barriers to care. I am still paying for the miscarriage, but I can afford it. Being able to focus on nothing but the miscarriage is a privilege that few are afforded.

Returning to the news with the blood still dripping from my vagina, I felt enraged. I read article after article. I shared them online. The trauma I was experiencing made me realize how much women endure, on their own, with or without support. How could I have, at any time, believed that the government had any right whatsoever to decide how a woman treated her body? How could I have been so ignorant to believe that abortions were only necessary during medical emergencies? How could I have ignored the larger implications? Roe v. Wade goes far beyond abortion. Every one of us, regardless of our situation, deserve the right to autonomy.

Writing this now, I feel ashamed. How did it take me so long to understand? How could I have called myself a feminist if I wasn’t willing to defend every single girl, woman or nonbinary person from having the right to choose what happens with their body? I’m embarrassed and heartbroken. It shouldn’t have taken a miscarriage for me to stand behind abortion, but here we are.

To all of you out there, pregnant, alone, in need of support—I see you. I’m sorry. I didn’t understand before; I didn’t listen. But I’m here now, I’m with you and I will advocate for your rights.

Women

I Miscarried While the News Ran Stories of Roe v. Wade Being Overturned

It was mid-spring of 2006. My mom called me into her room one day and told me the "weird guy" is on TV again. I saw a man walk across a pool, on top of the water in Las Vegas. 

I saw the cars he was driving, the women he was pulling and the money he was making and decided: That's what I'm doing for the rest of my life. And little did I know how insane yet amazing the next 15 years would become. So I got started, slowly but surely. I found a magic shop a few towns over from me and began taking lessons from the owner. It was there where I learned the basics. Everything else has been self-taught. Magic became my life. It is all I know. I realized very quickly how easy it is to fall in love with something to the point where you refuse to let it get taken from you. And life has tried its hardest to take it from me. 

I was told I had the worst case of ulcerative colitis Yale doctors had ever seen. I suffered huge rejection from family because I'm the only one who hasn't held a nine-to-five job. I've been homeless three times, attempted suicide, and yet, I'm still kicking. Magic has been the only thing I've had on my side. I have no plan B. It's do or die for me. I've literally told people that I'd rather starve on the streets doing what makes me happy than sell myself to a boss who will post my job position faster than my family could get my obituary out if I were to die. But you see, the more I do it and the more I see the smiles on the faces of thousands of people every year, the more I realize that this is exactly what I was meant to do. It's the only thing I can do. I've tried other things, and I don't have as much of an interest. But that is what makes it such a fun challenge—the fact that I don't have anything to fall back on.

It's kind of fun to wonder where the next meal is going to come from. I don't mean that as a desperation-type thing, more so a guessing-game-type thing. None of my jobs are consistent, and they don't all pay the same, so I could either eat cold ravioli out of a can that night or steak and lobster. I'd personally prefer cold ravioli out of a can; it keeps me grounded. It was my go-to food when I lived on subways and park benches. And if I ever make it big, I'll probably choose that just to keep me humble. I firmly believe in remembering where you got started and where you came from.

I've accomplished a decent amount of things during this short career. I've been on TV. I've had my own TV show. I've performed for Penn and Teller. I got invited to private parties in exclusive nightclubs in New York City because I snuck into other parties and did card tricks. I've opened shows in arenas, performed off-Broadway, ran my own tour twice, went viral on YouTube and, yet, I'm not satisfied. I want more because I know that I can get more. I work really hard for what I want, and at this point, I have nobody to prove myself to but myself. 

I set goals for myself at the beginning of every year. One year, I set the goal of wanting to perform in five different states. So I booked my New England tour and managed to hit seven states. Another year, I wanted to perform over 100 gigs and logged 148 performances. So in a sense, I was able to do what I set my mind to and more because I had a goal in mind and never gave up on it.

So if I had to give anyone reading any advice on how to become a famous magician, I'd have nothing to offer because I'm not there yet. However, if I were to give advice on how to live your life the way you want to and to be happy doing what you love to do, I'd simply say this: Believe in yourself. Don't listen to people. And most importantly, never give up on yourself. You will understand why you did the things you did and why the things that have happened to you happened. But understand something: If you manifest it, it will happen eventually. If you want something bad enough, you'll figure out how to get it. Just don't give up on yourself.

Pop Culture

Money

Abracadabra! I’m Living Out My Dream as a Professional Magician

The first thing I witnessed was bedlam. A sea of bodies, all sifting through piles of fabrics, sheets, soiled shirts, torn jackets, dusty blankets and discarded shoes inside eight-foot plastic blue bins, with everyone’s arms interweaving and maneuvering left to right, diagonal and across, stopping briefly to examine labels, stitching and fabric quality with a machine-like efficiency. Everyone spoke at once—chattering, shit-talking, bragging, laughing, sneering, their eyes all fixed downward as if panning for gold fragments in ancient river soil. 

After a few minutes, a fight broke out. 

This was “The Bins,” a secret world of thrift store discards where the persistent and the dogged could turn the trash of the elite class into an online resale. It was a warehouse located in a nondescript eastern corner of Los Angeles, and everything was sold for $1.50 a pound. Here, it was all about being willing to dive into scum, dried vomit, cat piss and blood, all for the chance of finding that rare REO Speedwagon tour shirt, vintage Pendleton blanket or NYFW donation dropped off by someone too wealthy to consider reselling their old clothes. 

Most of the time, it was shit, but if you masked up, took your allergy pills and were willing to dedicate your days searching, your rent money was somewhere inside these piles. This was the pre-COVID world in 2017.

The Bins attracted all walks of life: immigrants, hustlers, scam artists, grandmothers, hypebeasts, vintage enthusiasts and criminals. From 8 a.m. to 8 p.m., seven days a week, eight-foot sky blue plastic bins of mystery items were rolled out every 15 minutes. Rows of eight bins sat for over an hour—then, when all the picking had stopped, they were promptly rolled into the back of the warehouse and replaced again with new bins, new treasures and new trash. It was, by most estimates, a game of chance, an adrenaline rush for those who like to gamble for their income, and by most estimates, a mere means to survive in the modern economy.

The specific location of The Bins was (and remains) a trade secret. You only heard about it from a trusted friend, a benevolent seller willing to divulge their source or through a gumshoe’s desire to see the secret realms of the city. And once in there, you were met with suspicious eyes. Each morning, the cliques and crews grabbed their carts and lined them across the walls, covering their finds in blankets to protect them from thieving eyes. The floors were bare cement. You could only gauge the daylight by peering out the entrance doors, which faced a parking lot, making time feel nonlinear while inside under the enormous fluorescent panels. There was little trust in the room and even less desire to chit-chat with a newbie like me, someone who’d arrived, like many others, out of economic despair.  

On my first day there, everything in my cart was stolen. I hadn’t yet learned the “rules”: you don’t walk your cart in between the bin aisles. You place it on the side, like everyone else, to make room for others. It was only a few personal items, cheap and anonymous, nothing valuable. I knew that if I cried out, my tentative “place” would be lost; I’d be exiled forever, even if they allowed me to enter the doors. I said nothing and continued searching.

The first few days were fruitless. While I watched experienced pickers line their carts with high-end vintage denim jackets, Supreme swag and classic American workwear, I watched others take a decidedly more pragmatic approach. The divisions between what folks collected spoke volumes as to their priorities, as well as their economic station:

1. One group of Mexican grandmothers spent their entire days collecting only bras, oftentimes filling up a train of carts by the early morning. They often enrolled their daughters, sisters and friends to rely on group support (and extra eyes). All the bras would be taken back to their communities in East L.A. and resold for a slight uptick in price but still far lower than retail.

2. A pair of Japanese thrift hunters—old friends from Tokyo—arrived each day with a quiet resolve. I’d watch them move between the frantic bodies of others with a stoic precision, pulling out an enviable supply of vintage American workwear. They ran a vintage stand monthly at the Rose Bowl Flea Market and ate the same rice and vegetables lunch, packed in their vintage canvas satchels, every day.

3. The booksellers existed in a tiny corner of the warehouse space—the books section was a static and overwhelming hoarder's pile of books with no apparent order—scanning the barcodes of thousands of books a day, amassing a limitless supply to resell online.

4. The hypebeasts moved like migrating birds, synchronized, with tattered sneakers and endless bravado. They worked in unison, lining up on entire sides of the bins as they were rolled out to maximize their chances at pulling up gold.

Occasionally, a tourist or couple would arrive, having received intel about the pricing, and express their disgust at the sweat (and health risks) of searching through donations. No one at The Bins was rich. Some sold on eBay, others on Amazon. Some took their items out every day, at the same time, and brought them to secondhand brick-and-mortar shops for cash, having long since established trust and rapport in their tastes.

After a few weeks, I began to gain enough trust to be spoken to and even in some cases, to be gifted items. Within the ultra-competitive veneer of this space existed a generous sharing economy—vintage pickers handing bras to the Mexican grandmothers or booksellers giving tips on how to sell online to teenage pickers looking to pay their way through college by any means necessary. No one recorded their good deeds; they simply did them. I was gifted vintage T-shirts, runway coats, high-end menswear and immaculate textiles, all because my fellow pickers saw I was looking for similar items. 

There seemed to be a mutual understanding that every person at The Bins was working on the margins of society, whether by force or by choice (some by both), and that the world “out there” didn’t exist to serve them and their communities. They had to scrounge and scrap for their place in their sun, their chance to sell those few big-ticket flips that could cover a month’s rent, a week’s groceries or basic bills to stay alive. No one was getting rich here (even if they were trying), but no one was going to suffer amidst such bounty, such treasure. The aim was to just get by and hope everyone else did the same. I considered myself lucky to be welcomed, to be supported.

After two months of diving into this world, I was forced to take on production work (my job for many years) to make ends meet, but I always made it a point to return to The Bins on a free afternoon or late evening after work, just before closing. I couldn’t turn enough profit to live, so I moved on, as many of us do while existing under the boot heel of this system. We go to where we can be fed, where we can do more than survive.

Work has been scarce and challenging through this pandemic, and when I find myself defaulting to the scarcity mindset that this system so relentlessly conditions into us, I remember the words so many pickers said to me when they handed me an item they knew could nourish my bank account. I would defer, saying it was unnecessary, and with a resolute grin, they would raise a hand and all say: “I have enough already.”

American Pickers: What I Learned Sorting Through the Trash of the One Percent

We grew up in America. Uh-mer-ick-uh. The land of the free and the home of the brave. Or so they told us.

We were programmed with so much number-one entitled elitism, fueled by ashes of the Cold War and planted by seeds of innovation to come. Zapping  TV dinners taking in Hollywood’s sovereign content, the U.S. bulldozed psyches globally, tainting the flavor of Globalization 2.0. With Coca-Cola and McDonald’s up its sleeve, American neo-imperialism crawled into global reality—blue-, red- and white-washing every continent.

What effect did that narrative have upon those at home on good ol’ American shores? From the consequences of Vietnam to the Gulf War waddle to the supposed weapons of mass destruction in Iraq? Could the U.S. populace have a conscience?

With a mere two true border countries—“America Lite” up north and the hired help down south—we face few consequences for our behavior. Humans define themselves by “the Other.” And since the nature of Americanness became a melting pot of possibility, most melded to fit in. Immigrant children refused to learn their parents’ native tongues. Tales of the Old World died with our grandparents.

This land on which we stand is not ours, stolen by diseased blankets and conquistador trickery. Even the indigenous population of the U.S. has an identity crisis.

Spring is making its way around the corner as I take a weekend getaway strolling rainy Tallinn streets. As I look up at classic Estonian buildings, deformed under the weight of time, reading signposts dating back to the 1400s, I take in a fresh breath of Nordic air and feel what it’s like to have culture. History. Meaning.

My travels through Bratislava to Budapest and Brussels to Bordeaux have shown me that people who have place create meaning around time and space. And over the trajectory of time, they weave a story of who and why they are. This is cultural history.

My Jewish ancestors came to the U.S., chased out of Eastern Europe by the czar in the late 1800s. Third-generation American, I don’t deny how lucky I am, how being born upon Yankee soil gave me a leg up in the world. I wouldn’t be who or how I am today without that.

But gratitude doesn’t dissuade my grimace. I can be thankful for being an American and still be disgraced at the lack of culture it harbors.

In some ways, minorities stuck together to preserve tradition. But in many other ways, a blasé form of political correctness makes the disparate seemingly mainstream. Messages of tolerance and acceptance put forth an agenda of sameness, leading the American psyche to focus so hardcore on the latest release of InstaNetflixNow that we’ve forgotten where we came from. We’ve become so self-obsessed that we’ve forgotten why we’re here.

My holiday takes me to the Estonian countryside, where I swing on a giant wooden plank built for 12, a local tradition. My strawberry-bearded Estonian friend tells me their history is riddled with witches, ceremony and traditional hunts for nonexistent fern flowers (as an excuse to make love in the forest). The Midsummer festival gathers a tribal reality of animist sun-worshippers, reconnected to natural cycles of reality on this planet earth. It seems each action has a superstition and each tradition a ploy for preservation.

We go for a walk through the woods, and as I follow his stout calves along the path, the endless sea of ferns sprawling across the forest floor flood my optical scope. I feel for a second like I'm tripping, yet I'm as sober as daylight. I ask him if he is used to this euphoric reality, and he responds by delving deep into Estonian mythology. Loosely translated, this is how ferns are thought about: "The fern blade keeps the lightning bolt away and the wolf from holding its tooth. It shines like the sun and shines in all the colors of the rainbow and is more beautiful than the water rose on the Amazon River and the morning star in the sky."

You're tripping with me now, right? In the end, he says yes; the quiet of the forest and the deep connection to the drastic changes in seasons keep him as grounded as his great-grandfather and his great-grandfather's grandfather. Their way of life is simple, only lightly changed by invasions and cultural conquests of religious conversion. Otherwise, he sits there before me, piercing sky blue eyes atop the long strawberry beard, sure as day: He knows who he is. Of course, his ancestry traces back to the Vikings; he has no doubt about his identity.

It’s not that anything is wrong with the United States. (OK, I may be biting my tongue there.) It’s just that we’ve lost all sense of history and deeper meaning. We are culture orphans living in a land of milk and honey. But the cows are locked up and the bees are dying. We’ve killed history, and no one knows their origin story anymore.

Some would argue that this hotbed of cultural enmeshment sings to the tune of country music and bluegrass. That the Appalachian Mountains still echo the settlers’ songs. That some unique form of original American destiny was laid down here, on the whipped Black backs of imported slave labor. Looking back, we don’t have much to be proud of.

We project into the future, build tall buildings and get obsessed with buying things online to make our kids look cuter. But have we forgotten how to write poems with pens?

Have we lost the visions of our ancestors or even the nation’s founders' dreams?

When politics become reality TV and the stock market can be swayed by the masses, have we not become a pigpen of toddlers, wading around in our own mess? Without being held accountable by the Other (aka border nations) and minimal hindsight from whence we’ve come, we cannot reliably plot a course for the future.

I sigh, wishing I could know what my lineage cared for, to walk in the footsteps of my ancestors. Likely they just wanted a better life. Nostalgia creeps up my spine. Was another strip mall, Target or Walmart paving their way across the country what they had in mind? Corporate slavery and media hypnosis?

I long for a sense of national purpose informed by the past.

Nostalgia

I'm Nostalgic for an American Culture That Doesn't Exist

Drugs & Alcohol

Up, up and away! Time to get out of the house with The Doe.

Travel

LGBTQ Voices

Motherhood

Earth Day or any day, let's celebrate our planet. 

Mother Earth

Tearjerkers

The Doe celebrates its authors this Black History Month.

Black Voices

Extra, extra, read all about it! The news-media industry has shifted dramatically over the last decade—heck, within the last two years. Between print journalism, podcasting, social media and infotainment, The Doe turns over every rock in this evolving ecosystem.

Media

Stories of starting over and finding the fresh.

New Beginnings

The ol' nine to five has changed quite a bit in the past couple of years, from working remotely to, well, not working at all. This month we take a look at how cash still does rule in our capitalist society and what the future of business and money might just look like.

Lord help us: They say it's not polite to talk about religion or politics, but—hey—we've already talked politics, haven't we? Prayer's up.

Religion

You can call me stupid, but there’s something hiding outside the frame of the picture-perfect scene in our American Dreams. Somewhere between white lines flashing over a dark highway stretching out to infinity, like Kerouac meandering in the rain, I was caught in a charade. With enough LSD to manufacture a hundred once-in-a-lifetime experiences, my friends Peter Pan, Cubby, Dago and I left Missouri for two months on the road crossing the American West, expecting the once-in-a-lifetime experience everyone talks about but misses out on. So before you call me stupid, just call me Nibs and know this story feels more like an acid trip than one down memory lane. 

It was 2018 as I juggled a clusterfuck in one hand with the residual effects of a high-altitude acid trip in the other. All the while the land of orange sunshine toppled out of the sky and onto my shoulders, flattening my dreams under Kerouac’s footsteps and the shadow of Desolation Peak.

Cubby’s crammed into a pickle offshore two lakes and 10 miles down the trail of the only way out of the north cascades, leaving me to hike the last portion of a 55-mile trail alone with nothing left to believe but the word of Nibs, the lost boy inside my head. 

We tripped over the edge and crash-landed on the wrong side of the open road. But where exactly? I was trying to figure it out and with eight miles left sometimes I think I can still feel the acid, I just don’t feel the magic.

Peter Pan and Cubby knew each other the longest, from a Catholic grade school leaving them more godless than religious. I knew Dago more from buying the weed he grew out of his old roommate’s closest. Cubby, Dago and I moved in together and started spitballing ideas for a trip. Dago mapped out the details from Missouri to Utah, Utah to California, up the coast to the border and back any way but the way we came. If the details were a lost cause, Peter Pan would still be shirking responsibility, never growing up and leading the charge forward. Not to mention with Cubby scoring a hundred tickets to the land of orange sunshine, the plan may have been drug-induced, but it seemed sound enough.  

When we’d waited enough tables, striped enough parking lots and saved enough money to finally load Cubby’s truck and hit the road for I-70 west, we still believed we were about to do something great. Maybe it was the LSD, the stereo’s pot-scented rhythm or the fresh-cut summer jet stream making us believe the indescribable force under us could only be a once-in-a-lifetime experience. 

The sun hadn’t risen yet as the hangover from the night before was shrugged off in Utah. Cubby, still too drunk to drive his truck, left it to Peter Pan. Peter wove through the canyons of Zion, headlights cutting through the last bit of night. As Dago and I passed a joint back and forth, Cubby was lulled to sleep by tires humming to the music on the stereo. I rested my head, imagining the truck as a firefly blinking off and on around curves, trying to elude a glass jar. 

The truck stops, overlooking the Virgin River cutting through a meadow of sunburnt grass. We’d follow the river carving out the Narrows into Zion. The sun was already bright in an empty sky; we followed a trail sliding into the river. Cubby and I decided to slip acid onto our tongues before getting our feet wet. One by one, the boys stepped into the river, wading along short sandstone cliffs. The canyon began growing up around them, funneling them deeper into the narrows when the acid hit. 

I stopped. The river’s currents rushed by, too busy sculpting red walls, dotted by green life in the cracks above, each bend a new hall from another portion of a never-ending dream. Spellbound and starstruck by the cosmic luck it took for a river to carve out another world within canyon walls, the Narrows swallowed the boys whole. Cubby ran his hand along the canyon walls, my oversized pupils snapped to Dago and Peter Pan splashing ahead, playing hide-and-seek in columns hollowed out by million-year-old eddies, stepping away from the current for a moment to themselves. I placed my hand against the canyon, my eyes sinking below the surface to my submerged toes, where the river meets the red wall. The shallow water pulled pebbles from their recess as the pebbles skipped and glided, tumbling against the canyon wall, leaving their mark on the world before being driven back beneath the millions that came before them and the millions that will follow. For a moment, the pebble escaped, its only contribution being the passing of time. That was the pinnacle of the trip. Not the climax. That came later. 

From Zion to California, we chased that feeling, up the coast and kept going, following the plan as Dago recalled. In the North Cascades, the group divided. Peter Pan and Dago would float alongside the mountaintops. Cubby and I would trace Jack Kerouac’s footprints to Desolation Peak. 

At the base of Desolation Peak, Cubby and I awoke, the moon resting in Lake Ross. We dropped acid around 3 a.m. before ascending the trail in silence. The moon drifting behind blueberry-shaded mountaintops, we climbed up a bluff and around a bend. Pausing breathless, we were blown away by a nuclear sunrise detonating across the mountains in orange explosions glittering through the morning dew and winking to us with a thousand morning suns dripping off a million pine needles, each one burning their treasure behind our watering eyes. 

What answers did I want to find in my memories? An experience? Then what experience and whose? Would the memory feel like the acid? Would it ever lose its magic? Was it all the same? Bleaching our brains on LSD like lost boys gallivanting across a neverland culminated only in my mind with searching dead ends for answers.

Two miles left for Peter Pan and Dago. What am I looking for? I know the answer, I just don't want to admit it. 

At the top of Desolation Peak, where Kerouac wrote and I spent an hour coming down off acid, I saw a land clouded by smoke from a dream caught in wildfires a thousand miles down the road. I don’t know what I chased. I thought I could almost see you, Jack Kerouac. In Desolation, I know that I saw you. You spoke to me as I’m speaking now and all I have left to say, Jack, is that I don’t know if you’re a symbol or just another lost boy looking for a home. I don’t think you’re a myth anymore, Jack. I just think you’re a human. And even without angels pouring me heart-filled cups, your mother can keep her rosary. You’ll get no qualms from me. You’re too tangled in her apron to see past angels. You can keep your Desolation Peak and the burnt-out view too. Because if Kerouac points to angels, I’ll point to his ass and tell him to fuck himself. Him and all the shells of human tropes talking out of their ass and chasing after his generation’s used nostalgia can eat shit. Fuck Jack Kerouac. Who the fuck am I pretending to be? I’m following you, Jack. Who are we pretending to be? Is Nibs some Dharma bum or just Neal Cassady’s sidekick? Is that all I am? I want my own story, my own life. I want to be the main character; don’t you, Jack? 

Our feet were buried on the last day of Oceanside before driving up the coast to the Cascades. I wiggled my toes under the sand. I told Peter Pan I didn’t feel like the main character of the story. When Peter said he didn’t know how that felt, I kept watching the sand. Waves broke against an overcast day with neither Peter nor I having much more to say.

Leaving the beach, I was the only one sober enough to drive, which sparked Dago and Cubby to begin shit-talking over who’d sit where. Cubby said Dago is sitting bitch because it’s his truck. But Dago didn’t wanna sit bitch—he wanted to smoke cigarettes. And nobody’s gonna make Peter Pan sit bitch. So Dago sits bitch. Cubby on one side and Peter on the other when Dago began smoking his cigarettes, to which Cubby promptly rejected because Dago was sitting bitch and it’s his truck. That’s when nerves crack, and the surface tension breaks with Dago lunging, wrapping his hands around Cubby’s neck, choking him. Whatever magic was in the land of orange sunshine left with the air strangled out of Cubby. They struggled for a moment until I pulled over, Peter intervened, and Dago let Cubby’s head deflate from its purple balloon state. 

That was the climax. At least how I saw it. 

The Lost Boys were trying to paint reality into the orange sunshine, and this was the result. Cubby prodding, Dago snapping and me not caring until it spilled into my fun. That’s why the boys split up for this last hike. The acid and high-altitude sun fried Cubby, dehydrating him to malnourishment. They had tried to hike out, stopping whenever Cubby needed to rest. Each stop, though, meant being kamikazed by mosquito swarms, pushing Cubby deeper into a thousand-yard stare and me removing items from Cubby’s pack, hoping to keep moving. But when Cubby couldn’t go any further, I knew coming back for him was the best thing to do. 

That's what I remember. I wish I were more focused. My knee was bugging me, and these thoughts made me think there was more acid in my system than I realized. Then again, maybe I just want there to be. Why? Isn’t this exciting? Isn’t this the once-in-a-lifetime experience everyone wants? Where’s the rush? The excitement? Am I being serious or dramatizing this to be more interesting? Is Cubby in danger or just lazy? What are Peter Pan and Dago going to think? I don’t know, but I wish I didn’t think so much.

Lucky for us, a bridge came into sight. I was almost to the parking lot. I began running. I could see the row of license plates through the trees as the hill flattened. The trees dispersed. I was off the trail and in the parking lot. Dago and Peter Pan were smiling back as they made coffee. I told them about Cubby, and they thought I was joking. “Seriously?” they asked. I nodded, “Seriously.” But no one knows how to take this seriously.

We’d been over the edge for so long, responsibility seems chaotic, and freedom is orange sunshine. We weren’t sure how we should act, even when the rangers radioed a rescue mission to recover Cubby. A ranger picked Cubby up by boat, taking him to a four-wheeler, escorting him to another boat that brought Cubby ashore where we picked him up. Afterward, we headed to the nearest McDonald’s. It was over. We all knew it and that’s where it ended, eating McDoubles and stealing blue Powerade in a plastic cup before starting back home any way but the way we came. 

Now, you can call us stupid. But at least you know when we start tracing white lines into a never-ending sunset against the backdrop of a picture-perfect scene, we’re outlining a dream that may flutter but it’s always fleeting, like the sulfur after the firework show we all missed and leaving us to only say, “Aww.” Because the smoke’s the last glimpse of the real thing, before the green flash leaves us with a floating spot where the sun used to be and a spark that vanished before we knew it was there. A spark Kerouac saw, only to be missed out by generations trying to trap nostalgia in glass jars. I can’t speak for anyone else, but I tried catching fireflies in the land of orange sunshine, and it never added up to the once-in-a-lifetime moment someone else painted for me.

Adventure

The Lost Boys and the Land of Orange Sunshine: A Psychedelic Road Trip Into the American Dream

I was 8 years old when I had my first glimpse of the American dream. High School Musical aired on the Disney Channel for the first time in Latin America in 2006. The combination of music, Gabriella and Troy’s love story and the showcasing of life of students in a developed country marked me. The musical became a safe haven that projected my ideal life as a young woman and as a student. I learned the choreography, the songs and dialogue. For some people, exercise puts them in a good mood; for me, the musical worked in a similar way. I watched the movies often, as if it were my religion and my source of endorphins.

Back then, English was a strange language to my ears. The High School Musical soundtrack wasn’t dubbed into Spanish, so when I had to sing along, I wouldn’t feel super confident pronouncing, “We’re all in this together.” By the end of the movie, though, I knew I wanted to study in the United States, for three reasons: to speak English like in the songs, to have decent classrooms and to find myself a Troy Bolton.

Dreaming of high school in the U.S. wasn’t enough. Hollywood made me want to pursue higher education in America too. Having watched Legally Blonde and Accepted, I knew university in America would be more prestigious than in my home country. By the time High School Musical 2 was released the following year, I felt confident about my English proficiency. This time around, I challenged myself to watch the movie in English without subtitles. In my heart, I felt as if I was getting closer to making my dream come true. However, my high school graduation date was fast approaching, and I had yet to finalize any paperwork to transfer to the U.S. 

I thought that dream was over when my parents told me they could not afford an education in the U.S. After all, my parents' salaries were $1,000 a month, which did not even cover our expenses. And they didn’t want to send me on a tourist visa. As the oldest child, I have always had to give a good example and abide by the rules. I was not going to get a tourist visa that I would overstay. Neither did I continue asking for a dream that my parents couldn’t afford. In my heart, I felt as if higher education was my last opportunity to study abroad. Moreover, I had done plenty of research about scholarships for Latin American students. 

One TOEFL exam and over 20 scholarship applications later, I put my dream on pause. Every single scholarship application was rejected. I felt as if no one believed in my skills and goals. However, I got an admission letter from a local college that had some American professors on campus. It was not exactly my dream, but it was the closest thing. 

I met my college sweetheart at the beginning of my junior year—a not-so-tall Latin American guy who went to the gym more often than he went to class. I knew he was no Troy Bolton, but I felt in a rush to get over having the first boyfriend, as if it were a box I had to check off before graduation. Right before winter break, I saw a flyer hanging on the monthly bulletin that said, “Apply to study abroad in Florida.” I didn’t need to continue reading. I was sold on the headline alone. 

Three weeks later, I received an email from the provost of my university at home congratulating me on my application. A few tears dropped down my cheek as I read the letter of acceptance. In December, I packed my bags and flew to West Palm Beach. 

Almost 12 years after seeing my first American movie, I had finally made it to American soil as an exchange student. I was walking in the same hallways I had seen in movies. Everything from the cafeteria to the classrooms looked as marvelous as it did on-screen. I had the option to choose what I wanted to have for lunch: It could be a salad, a burger or both, because the cafeteria served buffet-style. Oh, Americans go big or don’t go at all. The amount of food served daily was insane. My school cafeteria could have fed a city back home. 

Three weeks into the spring semester, I had met eyes with an Australian who would later become my Troy Bolton. I had this weird connection whenever we crossed looks. One day, he sat down next to me at the cafe, and we quickly started chatting. After our conversation, I called my then-boyfriend who studied back home and broke up with him. I knew our relationship had been deteriorating, and distance was taking its toll on him. Plus, I was looking forward to further exploring my connection with the Australian student.

Life in America was not always as it was shown in the movies. For one, my roommates suffered from weird mood swings and craved drama 24/7. Drama was a trend that I dare say applied to all American students. Right before midterms, my roommate was tased in the mouth by her best friend. The police came to my campus multiple times. The normality of life is something that was impossible to not miss. At home, people were warmer, welcoming and good-hearted. If I could merge the hospitality of my people with the American facilities, real life would be like in High School Musical.

By the end of the semester, I had high grades, an American bank account, friends from all over the world and an Australian boyfriend. It had been the best six months I have ever lived thus far. I felt the urge to stay in West Palm Beach with the love of my life. For the first time, I developed the feeling of belonging to a magical place filled with love from those close to me. I could not believe my dream would only last six months. One semester was not enough. I longed for a lifetime. 

I wish I could live in the spring of 2017 forever. To this date, I still look back to that period of time that encompassed my happiest memories. I lived my own version of High School Musical, except my version was a college edition with a Spotify playlist entitled “West Palm Beach Feels,” featuring music by Lostboycrow and LANY. I became enamored with the city; for that reason, leaving was tough. My scholarship only covered a semester. I had to go back home and finish school there.

Although my body was physically in Latin America, a piece of me stayed in West Palm Beach. I graduated at home and maintained a four-year long-distance relationship. I revisited the city with my Australian boyfriend in 2020 before the pandemic hit. Needless to say, my love for the place was still intact. 

Education

My American Dream Was College Life in the States

Working in campaign politics, I hear a lot about “the American Dream.” It’s a popular phrase for politicians to use in speeches and ads in order to conjure up warm, fuzzy feelings about rags-to-riches success and pulling yourself up by your bootstraps. 

The American Dream is both iconic and elusive. Though it is a famed ideal, its definition is rather vague and subjective. Traditionally, it refers to a person’s ability to come from any background and rise above their struggles, ultimately achieving success because of their hard work and the freedoms and opportunities afforded them in America. Stereotypically, the emphasis is materialistic—working hard so you can own a nice home with a white picket fence in the suburbs, for instance.

While there is nothing wrong or evil about defining the American Dream as simply achieving a successful career and material wealth, I believe the true meaning cannot be encapsulated in such a narrow frame. It is so much bigger, broader and better than that. 

The American Dream is not as shallow as the rest of the world or Hollywood or even politicians make it out to be. It is the American Dream that brings hopeful immigrants to the U.S., inspires first-generation college students to press on and earn their degrees and gives a single mother the fortitude to work three jobs to give her children a better life. 

As I mentioned above, I’ve had the privilege of working in campaign politics for the past several years. My resume includes work for the Republican Party, for right-leaning organizations and for conservative candidates. I have worked on local, congressional, gubernatorial and presidential races and have experience in grassroots organizing all the way up to campaign management. It is a whirlwind lifestyle, not for the faint of heart, but I love it. I’ve spent my last several years traveling the country, working for inspiring candidates, talking to voters on both sides of the aisle and getting to know the volunteers who are fighting for their beliefs and way of life. 

It is these people—people I agree with and people I disagree with, people in my political party and people on the opposite side of the spectrum—who helped me see that the American Dream is so much bigger than one individual or even one definition. The American Dream is transcendent, stretching through time and place, lasting from era to era—and the American people taught me that.

Through talking to hundreds of Americans along the campaign trail, I have realized my American Dream is intertwined with the dreams of the people I have met. The stories I have heard are impressed on my heart forever and will guide my future endeavors.

I met people like Marvin from the East Coast, whose skeletal frame was covered by beautiful ebony skin and whose smile always stretched ear to ear. His only method of transport was a bicycle or the kindness of a friend. He rode his bicycle to meet our team on Saturday mornings and weekday afternoons so that he could knock on doors and talk to voters about the candidates he supported. One time, he biked 36 miles round trip to attend a rally in a city nearby. He was well loved by both the local county party members and campaign staff, who gave him rides, bought him lunches and nominated him for volunteer of the week. As I got to know Marvin, I learned that he was one of very few in his family and community who voted Republican but that he was passionate about electing conservatives because he cared about his community and believed smaller government offered the best long-term solutions for low-income and minority communities. His American Dream was seeing his community rise out of hardship and into opportunity.

Then there was Katherine, who lived out West. She was single, in her mid-60s and had several adult children. She was a contrarian at first, but once she found out I would listen to her and respect her point of view, she became one of my most consistent and dedicated volunteers. She was lonely but kind. She occasionally invited me over to her small home for tea or dinner, wanting to make me feel comfortable in a new state. As I got to know her, I learned that she was disappointed in herself because her children didn’t see the world the way that she did and she felt that she had failed them. She explained that she was volunteering because she wanted to preserve the ideals of freedom, faith and family for her children, even if they didn’t recognize the value of those things. She prayed over them constantly. Her mother’s heart was the genesis of her American Dream: a better life for her children.

And in the Deep South, I had the privilege of meeting Ling, Ana and Johanka, who were all immigrants from communist nations. At a meet and greet one day, they were able to share about the horrors they had witnessed and experienced under communism. They were from different nations—China, Chile and the Czech Republic—but their stories were similar. They agreed that America is, as in Reagan’s words, the “last best hope of man on earth.” America to them was the place people could flee to when all else was crumbling. They spoke lovingly of our nation, claiming it was a symbol of hope and the promise of a better life for people around the world. It is a place of solace for those “tired…poor…huddled masses yearning to breathe free” as is inscribed on Lady Liberty. To them, the American Dream meant the promise of freedom, opportunity and new beginnings.

I got to know many high school and college-age volunteers and interns like Madeline, who was concerned about her future if America continued down the path it was on. She was a prelaw student who was concerned about protecting her rights to think and speak freely, dream big, assemble for causes she believed in and pursue happiness. Her American Dream was to become who she wanted to be and create a future she believed in, uninfluenced by an oppressive government or educational bias.

One day, a man named Hank walked into our office and asked if we could help him register to vote, even though he had served a felony sentence. It was a privilege to be able to tell him yes and assist him in the process. Seeing the smile on his face was priceless, and helping him fill out the paperwork made me feel like I was helping to restore just a little bit of his dignity. Before he left, Hank shared with me that he was passionate about freedom of speech and concerned about the censorship he was seeing both online and in the public square. He was excited to get to cast his vote for candidates he felt would protect that right. His American Dream was getting to contribute to his community again, thanks to the nation of second chances.

And there was also Peter, a retired farmer and businessman who dedicated himself full time to our cause. He celebrated his 80th birthday during the campaign and still knocked on doors, organized events, set up meetings and trained volunteers. He was invested for many reasons—the desire to preserve values he held dear, the need to protect his children and grandchildren’s future and the hope he felt when he heard our candidate speak about a unified state and nation. Peter could have been enjoying a blissful retirement on his farm, enjoying time with his friends and loved ones, but instead, he fought selflessly with us in the trenches. His American Dream was to leave an honorable legacy for his family and his community.

While yes, I am a conservative, I had the chance to speak to many liberal voters along the campaign trail too. Surprisingly, when we seem more polarized than ever, folks on both sides of the political spectrum seemed to have a similar sense of what the American Dream meant. A brighter tomorrow for their children. More equality and justice for their neighbors. A more unified nation. We all want Americans to survive and thrive.  

Sacrifice. Hope. Pursuit of a better future. Those seemed to be common threads in every story I heard. 

And what is my American Dream? Well, it’s ever evolving. The people I have met along the way—along with their stories, hearts and dreams—have become intertwined with mine. Ultimately, I dream of a better America that is in line with the ideals contained in our founding documents. We have made so much progress throughout the years, but at the same time, we have also lost sight of the value of many of our freedoms and the importance of preserving our unique system of governance. I dream that we can course correct before it is too late and that I can contribute to the cause of securing a better future for my fellow Americans. 

I’m so glad we’re not all working toward the same dream of that white picket fence around a house in the suburbs. Instead, we are all working to better ourselves and our society in our own way. No, we don’t always agree on what is best for America’s future or how changes should be brought about or who is responsible for making the needed improvements. But if we all agreed, not only would it be monotony; the end result would be tyranny.

Our dreams might sometimes clash, propelling us in different directions, but it seems to me there is another way to look at it. The way that our dreams interact with one other, instead of seeming hostile, can be seen as iron sharpening iron. Our dreams can work together to help us collectively create the better future—that “more perfect Union”—we are all seeking. My American Dream is simply to be a part of that beautiful and painstaking process of creating a better tomorrow for all of us.

I Work for the Republican Party: Here's What I Know About the American Dream

My father and his brother got married a week apart. Soon after, they both left North Africa with their new wives in search of a better life and new opportunities.

While my uncle managed to win the green card lottery, my father managed to get a job in a Southern African country he knew nothing about. Still, after packing some bags filled with molokhia (mallow leaves used to make a traditional soup) and okra, my parents made their way to a new country with nothing but optimism. My mother had never been on an airplane, let alone left her hometown. She was nervous saying goodbye to her family, knowing she might not see them until a few years later, if ever again. But she was excited to see a new place and start afresh with her husband. 

In the years that followed, our family and my uncle’s family shared letters and infrequent long-distance phone calls to and from the United States. They had a child and my parents had me, and they would often talk of their dreams of us meeting and playing together. They never mentioned coming to visit us though. It was only ever, “When are you coming to America?” Although our country was filled with cleanliness and beautiful scenery, bursting with food and culture, they never considered returning to their African continent. And to be honest, growing up watching American TV in the ’90s, I couldn’t blame them. I was beyond excited to visit their home in a land that seemed so abundant.

When I turned 12, we finally planned to go to the U.S. around Christmas. I’d never seen snow or experienced a wintery Christmas—my holiday memories were filled with hot summer days playing at the beach, grilling outdoors, smelling mosquito repellant and eating a healthy stock of cut watermelon in the fridge. At the same time, pine trees with snow-frosted tips made up our Christmas decorations, even though we were more likely to have acacia or baobab trees outside. Carols like “White Christmas” always played in the supermarket because American imperialism was, and still is, so strong. 

All the songs made sense after arriving in the U.S. that December. Although I’d sadly come to find out it didn’t snow in L.A., being bundled up in wooly gloves and sweaters, drinking hot cocoa and seeing the epic decorations on people’s lawns was still really exciting. I also loved being able to drink bottomless sodas at restaurants and buy all the butterfly clips I wanted. My uncle’s family promised a fun time with their big American house, garden and basketball hoop outside, just like in the movies. We rode in a limousine for the first time that my uncle booked for us one night, and I thought it was the best day of my life. He wore designer clothing and drove fancy cars. I remember seeing about 15 credit cards spread out on the bed while he tried to find the one that worked. I thought he was the richest man I’d ever seen. He had a successful restaurant and was set to open another one soon. 

The American Dream was in full view, and he spent that holiday trying to convince us to move there. As much as we liked all the little things we saw on TV, we couldn’t help but think that it wasn’t that much better than our life—and to their surprise, we didn’t want to move there. When we’d meet other people there, they’d have pity in their eyes for us when finding out where we lived. “What made you go there?” That was the question we got the most. We would repeatedly say what a great country we lived in, constantly explaining that we didn’t live in huts or have lions roaming around the streets. 

We also had to explain that while there was poverty in our home country, that wasn’t the only way that people lived. When we saw all the homeless people on the streets of Los Angeles, I remember being puzzled as to why they thought our country was poorer.

Years after our trip to the U.S., my uncle started falling on harder times, and eventually, when the 2008 recession hit, he lost his restaurants, their house and his cars. It was a tragic time for them, and my father often had to send them money just to keep them afloat. Being the family everyone pitied, sending money from Africa to America was quite the twist in circumstances.

Humbled by that experience, my uncle’s family never petitioned us to come to America again, but other family members and friends in the U.S. who didn’t know their situation continued to nag us about it. Their condescension went from being an ironic private joke in our family (they had become ignorant Americans) to realizing they were being racist toward Africa (a continent they came from too). They truly felt sympathy for us, even though our family was doing just fine financially—we didn’t have major debt, we had a good education, access to some of the least-polluted air in the world and ate food that was more commonly grown organically than big industrial agriculture. To them, it was inconceivable that a life in Africa could be full of pleasures and comfort.

For my uncle’s family, life was never the same. He went from owning restaurants to managing one, while my aunt started informally catering because they were living paycheck to paycheck. The flashbacks of the credit cards on the bed I’d seen as a child suddenly made sense: They had lived on massive lines of credit their whole lives, and when the bubble burst, they lost everything. Now our family was convincing them to live with us, promising to help them, but that would never be an option. Even if they were struggling, they still lived in America and that meant it was better, right?

While I often compared my life with my cousin’s life, getting jealous when I heard stories about her trip to an Usher concert or spotting celebrities, when it came down to it, there wasn’t too much difference between living in America and living in Africa. Whenever I thought about the differences, I realized that those were what made our lives good. We may not have had access to as many products and conveniences, but that meant we were less focused on consumerism. Our consumerism was the glorious feeling of making it in time to get the huge avocados, mangos and watermelons on the side of the road before they sold out.

The capital city and my hometown were immaculately clean and always easy to navigate—the longest we’d wait in traffic to get home was 15 minutes. And because we didn’t have skyscrapers, the tallest building was a hotel in the city center with 15 floors. The large boulevards in town were lined with jacaranda trees, and in the few months out of the year when they were in bloom, the flowers created not only a lavender-colored canopy over the street but also a purple carpet on the pavements. I often inhaled the sweet smell as I cycled to the park to meet up with my friends. While we lived in a part of the world that was lesser known globally, we knew so much about the world outside of ours—something our education emphasized. Most Americans we encountered didn’t know that Africa wasn’t a country. 

Though we would sometimes fantasize about all the places to which we’d travel, the concerts, festivals or theater shows we’d want to see, the pictures we’d take, the clothes we’d buy or the food we’d try, we all knew we would never want to live anywhere else. As we’d watch the magical sunset beyond the rolling hills, we all knew this was still the best place in the world.

Ancestry

The American Dream Is a Lie: A Tale of Two African Families

There’s nothing quite like turning a busy street corner onto Times Square for the first time.

Immediately, this sense of awe and surrealism washes over you as you begin to register the larger-than-life billboards and advertisements only ever seen on television and film. The New York Times building seems to stare down at you as you drive by and gawk up at it from inside the tour bus. Flashing lights and sweeping crowds and the frightening driving habits of New Yorkers surround you, welcoming you in what strangely feels like an embrace you were always meant to experience.

As a 30-something introvert who happily lives on a rural Minnesota farm with her husband and cat, I possessed no real desire to travel to New York. But when a friend asked me to accompany her for a milestone birthday trip, I agreed. I didn’t expect to enjoy the trip all that much, but New York City was eye-opening.

At first, I simply hoped that I could make it the whole five days without wanting to crawl up the walls, desperately seeking a little solitude from the bustle of a city whose population outnumbers my entire state’s by about 3 million. But the trip I had such low expectations for turned out to be transformative, awakening an otherwise dormant passion for travel within me.

Around every corner in the city, we discovered something fun and exciting. Over here, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, surrounded by a convoy of guards cloaked in black, sporting dark glasses and armed with some sort of automatic weapons. Down the street, Rockefeller Center, covered in blooming spring flowers. Over there, the sketchiest massage parlor I’d ever seen nestled against a high-end wine bar.

We spent about an hour in that wine bar, seeing all walks of life traipse in and out onto the New York streets. The bartender was stereotypically trying to make it big as a voice-over artist and podcast host. A scruffy, possibly homeless protester had to be escorted out of the upscale dining area, cardboard sign in tow.

At the bar, a mysterious, dark-haired woman surrounded herself with an array of beverages but sat alone. Judging by her selection of water, tea and white wine, she appeared to be nursing a hangover. Behind her giant reflective sunglasses, she avoided any eye contact and kept mostly to herself—except to snap a photo of my friend and me at the bar. My friend spotted her in the act; she was furious, while I was oblivious to it all. No words were exchanged, and the woman suddenly vanished.

When my friend told me about the photo, I found it absolutely intriguing. Who was this strange apparition? And why in the world did she decide to take our photo—without asking—and then drift away?

With more questions than answers, we turned to the bartender. He told us she was a famous fashion designer, but he couldn’t remember her name and referred to her as Lady Jane. As it turned out, my friend had surreptitiously captured a photo of the woman, so we could try to figure out who she was and what she wanted to do with a picture of us. While we continued on our trip, Lady Jane continued to be a central topic of conversation—not to mention avid Googling. 

As the five-day trip continued, we visited the typical tourist attractions, like the 9/11 Memorial and Museum and the Statue of Liberty. Standing on Liberty Island and facing Manhattan, it struck me that I was actually looking at the New York City skyline; this wasn’t a TV show. It felt surreal. All throughout the trip, I kept thinking to myself, “Holy shit. I’m actually here!”

I never understood the appeal of New York City until I visited. Suddenly, I understood just how spectacular it really is. And when the trip was over, much to my surprise, I couldn’t wait to go back. There were so many more places to visit—just thinking of all the wine bars, restaurants, memorials and people-watching we didn’t get to during the trip was enough to make me want to plan annual trips.

Meanwhile, the enigma of Lady Jane continued on for about a year. I constantly wondered who she was. A fashion designer? Merely some eccentric woman with an unhealthy penchant for sneaking photos of complete strangers? I didn’t know.

But the mystery of who she was and why she took our picture was exhilarating. It compelled me to spend hours researching online, trying to match the photo my friend had taken to strangers on the internet. The little puzzle made for an interesting conversation piece on the topic of traveling, leaving me ready to pull out my phone at a moment’s notice to see if a stranger I just met happened to recognize Lady Jane from New York.

Because the bartender and I both had podcasts at the time, he found me and messaged me Lady Jane’s business card. He’d found it while moving and remembered our photo incident. We had our answer: Lady Jane was both absolutely eccentric and a successful fashion designer based on the West Coast. After a year of wondering, the mystery had been solved. Honestly, the mystery was more fun.

The riddle of Lady Jane was just the cherry on top of a fun, surprising trip. I certainly didn’t expect to fall in love with New York City, but once I felt that undeniable connection, I knew my departure would be filled with a deep longing to return. When I arrived back home to my quiet town in farm country, I was still surprised to miss the abundance that New York City had to offer. It’s an itch that sticks with you until you return, welcoming you with its boisterous streets and the promise of hundreds more Lady Jane characters.

I traveled to New York at the request of a friend, expecting little. I returned home with an emptiness that can only be filled by the discovery of new and unexpected favorite places.

An Unexpected Love for New York City

When I moved to New York City with a $20 bill in my pocket to become an actress, I knew that it wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.

I had no connections in the industry and no savings, and I knew that I would need a day job to acquire the bare necessities. I eventually worked long hours doing overnight shifts as a cocktail waitress and bartender. I would work until almost 6 in the morning, which would become exhausting. Financially, I wasn’t able to take off a shift at the bar to work an acting job, because I made more money behind the bar than I did on set. As I sometimes rushed between bars and gigs, I hated that other actors could sleep well because their parents fronted their rent. 

Still, I’m proud of pursuing the American Dream with a family of blue-collar workers who didn’t coddle me but taught me life skills, values and work ethic. Eating out meant going to the gas station with only a $5 bill as a kid, and the concept of dressing in formal attire for a restaurant was foreign to me. I cherish that.

Everyone would prefer to move from a shitty town in America to the greatest one of all. Or so I thought. I came to realize that I didn’t come from a shitty town and New York wasn’t the greatest after all.

One of my first jobs in the city was dubbing commercial tapes in Times Square for $10 an hour. It was a family-owned business whose purpose was to clean up commercial spots before they went to air. It was a few blocks away from the acting conservatory I went to and a quick train ride back to Queens, where I was living at the time.

The company owner’s son showed me a taste of some of the characters I would be running into over the next decade. Not only did he tell me that if a girl got raped, it was because she “dressed like a slut,” but he also wrongly assumed that the Dolce & Gabbana purse that I bought with tip money from my waitressing shifts was “a gift from Daddy.” Even if I was aware of the many laws intact to extricate us from this type of workplace abuse, I was always one to fight my own battles.

“Oh, yeah? Is that how the girls in New York are raised?” I would snidely respond. He would look dumbfounded, like he wasn’t expecting my 19-year-old self to react with ease.

“Where are your parents from?” he barked back.

“People in New York City are usually first- or second-generation American,” he said in disbelief before he stopped harassing me for the day.

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