"Antarctica shouldn't be a continent"

Joseph the Street Artist

Context, context, context

Of all the questions that we ask people, I’m beginning to find the last one the most interesting. We ask our questions about America—what to you think being an American is all about? of all the Americans you’ve met, is there one thing they all have in common? and, what do you think the American dream is?—but to conclude the interview, we ask everyone to tell us a little something about themselves. This part is my favorite. Our first questions are interesting in a different way. Asking someone to talk about an abstract idea—American identity, for example—draws people out of their skin in ways I simply find fascinating.

Asking questions concerning common ideas seems to do more than provide a space for personality exhibitions—though these are inevitable—it provides an opportunity for a person to talk about ideas that have impressed them, become impressed in them, about concepts that involve more than one person, more than just themselves. “American” is a term applied to more than one person.

But several people have answered: “Being an American is about being out for yourself;” a yogi we met on Bourbon Street believed the American dream was “ultimately just an excuse to live how you want to live at the expense of others.” We met a couple in Austin who thought that even though Americans are supposed to be free, they are still restricted in many ways. But the woman added that as a woman, she did appreciate the freedoms she was allowed in this country, comparing it to other countries in which women were forbidden many things women enjoy in this country—driving for example.

Stitching all of these positions together to form a complex definition of American identity would be a murky affair—and it is not what we purport to do. We are seeking, rather, to put together an exhibition, a show, a display of America in a variety of poses—through several lenses, ours, theirs, yours. Definitions are for people who believe in them. What has been put into the camera may become something very different when it projects onto the screen, when the images are woven together and seen in each other’s contexts.

It is important not to forget about context. When we approach these random people, and ask them questions that they are not necessarily prepared to answer, we receive answers that usually flow pretty quickly; they seem to come off of the tops of people’s heads. It is a lovely thing, to see the ways people describe the country they live in, or are visiting—the country they are in—whether or not they even identify with labels like American in the first place…

(Alex)

Preconceptions about ‘gringos’

I left my preconceptions about 'gringos' at my door in Bolivia. There, many people say: "Gringos? Oh yes, they are fat and always busy, rushing around and buying things all the time..." Familiar to you?

Having lived in the US for over five years now, I may now safely dismantle that stereotype—or at least recognize that stereotypes about a culture never really define the whole. ‘Wholes’ resist definition. What can you say about life as a whole, or Americans as a whole, or whatever, as a whole?

I like what Whitman says in “To a Historian”:

“You who celebrate bygones,

Who have explored the outward, the surfaces of the races, the life

that has exhibited itself,

Who have treated of man as the creature of politics, aggregates,

rulers and priests,

I, habitan of the Alleghanies, treating of him as he is in himself

in his own rights,

Pressing the pulse of the life that has seldom exhibited itself,

(the great pride of man in himself,)

Chanter of Personality, outlining what is yet to be,

I project the history of the future.”

Democracy seems to thrive on this fancy of Whitman’s. In a democracy, the people are supposed to be able to decide what the future has in store. We democrats are supposed to be able to decide what the good is, rather than simply obeying and defending traditional values. We democrats are supposed to be able to mold our own futures—and not only our own, but the future of our children. But to what extent do we draw from things past in order to find out how to create the future? We might be born blank slates, but very quickly, we begin to learn—about history. About where our mothers and fathers have been, so that we may decide where to go from there.

Some of the folks we interview respond to our questions by defending traditions—“What does it mean to be an American?” we ask, and they say, “It means having pride in your country, respecting your president no matter what…”

Then we get the creative responses—take Ashley the Bourbon Street Queen: “I am an American because I am who I want to be.” S/he is transgender, transsexual, and gay. S/he has decided to create for herself an identity of her own making. Being an American, for her, is not about respecting your country’s ideals (whatever they may be), but about creating a personality for herself that is uniquely her own.

So what can one say about a collective American identity? Can one say anything at all? Are we going to take these interviews and claim “Americans are like this… or this…" based on the sample of the population we chance to encounter? Are we finding connections between these people—these citizens, these members of a country? Or are we simply getting to know a bit about distinct personalities? About people in themselves in their own rights?

(Alex)

It seems like... we just had to post this

The road (from the driver's perspective)

How do you measure a road trip? Not in miles traveled, but in experiences had. So how then do you measure the traveling itself? Too much of the trip is spent on the road in the car to be ignored. For this trip, I have assumed the role of driver. I do not have the luxury of contemplating hay bales or snapping a picture of every single water tower I see (though I do throroughly enjoy listening to Alex describe the scenery and love the excitement she experiences at discovering yet another water tower). My eyes are on the road and my fellow travelers to ensure that Alex and I arrive at our next destination. This is my best attempt to describe traveling America from behind the wheel...

 

In Lafayette, LA, Alex and I found that most people drove around in their cars and there was not really anyone walking on the streets to interview. At first I thought this was absurd. Walk much, Lousiana? Then I realized that it is the same where I live. People drive everywhere because the city is not really conducive to traveling by foot. This, and a random conversation we had with a yogi on Bourbon St., made me realize that our posessions very often seem to become an extension of ourselves. Though I am certainly not an automobile, and I wouldn't identify with one if you asked me, as I drive over the various streets of America, my little green SUV becomes an extension of myself. I connect with the roads, the veins of America's body. My fingers become its tires, tracing and caressing the road's every curve. I sway with every strong gust of wind that carries me on to the next destination. Its exciting to be traveling at such speed on, what I am convinced is the only thing that connects and unites the American people, the country's roads.

 

So then, how do you measure the car trip when you're driving? Sometimes minutes feel like hours and hours like mere moments so I can't say that I count the time it takes. I don't measure it in the miles that my poor little Kia is conquering on its Westward trek because to me measuring miles is meaningless. I have nothing to compare the immensity of a mile to and miles go by so quickly in the car. I would have to say that I measure the trip in bugs on my windshield. Each tiny squashed insect carcass is a welcoming splash from the next city. Some are little splotches from small cities who want to leave a mark on my life, but don't know how. These bugs squeak, “Thanks for passing by,” as they collide with the glass that has become my second lense. The biggest one so far was an oversized welcome from Texas, the state where everything is bigger! “Check out the quail farm,” it urges me before crashing against the windshield, “you can buy them live or frozen!” Each smudge is another battle scar on our green chariot that pushes further and further into new territory.

 

It would be interesting to see how many little insect bodies have found their way onto my windshield by the end of this trip, but at each gas station, I have to clean them off and make room for the next state's bugs to crash into me.

 

(Sarah)

Oh Your God,

Magnolias

Ashley the Bourbon Street Queen

The Queen of Bourbon Street welcoming us to N'awlins