Who are those, "americans"?

It seems that every American has a definition of what America as a nation is supposed to represent to the world. The only problem is, is that we Americans know shockingly little about the world of which we are a part. Usually, we are portrayed as a people completely bifurcated from the issues, concerns, worldviews, languages and religions of those around us, and, in some cases, it might be true.

This comes to pass when looking at our government and the vitriolic 'public discourse' that has been shaping our political/cultural/ social landscape for about 12 years now (I write 12 years, because I am young and I can't speak about 20 or 30 years ago). For one, the way we Americans throw words like "socialism", "communism", "nazi", "facsit" and "God" around has indicated that we are a fearful people. Ironically, the strong-willed, independent Americans who are proud of their heritage as a people who have never been ruled by a larger authority than The People themselves, seem to have lost the edge when it comes to thinking for the greater good: stockpiling arms and weapons for a future 'war' against the enemies who are trying to pull the nation away from under their feet is quite silly. These people (fearful ones) don't engage in the culture around them. They don't talk about differences of opinion on a level of respect and mutual acknowledgement that even their so-called 'enemies' are fellow Americans. They've given up on a nation that they claim to love so much because it doesn't fit their narrow, cookie-cutter view of what the 'Stars & Stripes' should represent.

Maybe the split is generational, after all, my identity of being an American doesn't come from being European descent, nor does it come from speaking English, or my strong sense of 'personal responsibility' and American individualism (my parent's generational definition). My identity as an American is rooted in the idea that I've come from a nation of many faces, skin tones, religions and, yes, languages. Now, I'd be the first to admit that attaining/living in a true 'multicultural' society is close to impossible. But, I would like to the think that with all of our problems (and we do have many) that we Americans are closer to any other nation on earth (at least from my experience in Europe) in sustaining a 'national story' of being a mixed people. Diversity, at least for me, creates problems and is very messy. There are times where blacks and whites don't understand each other. There are instances of violence and of oppression from the lowest ranks, all the way to the highest. Sometimes, we place blame. But underneath all of this is the fact that we white Americas, and all others, have been raised in a society that hasn't grown from the roots of our European ancestors. And, I find this wonderful.

Think about our culture for a few minutes and you will begin to see that it never has been any 'one's' creation; it has been 'ours': In American English, we have over 10,000 words that are not found in British English: there are over 2,000 French words, 4,000 Spanish and over 4,000 words from Native American language. I mean, without our mixed background, we Americans would have never introduced the world to the concept of the "Rodeo" (Spanish) or the "kayak" (Algonquin), or the “beaver”. Flipping through the pages of a Czech church hymnal, I'm always shocked at how many African-American spirituals are found (it has to be about 30 percent). Europeans love spirituals and are always quick to point out that they are from African, black origin. I usually respond by telling them that that might be true on a root level, but on a cultural/language level, these spirituals arose on the Atlantic piedmont of South Carolina, or in the delta of Mississippi; they are American and they have influenced my culture (that of a white man) just as much as Jazz, Rock n Roll, Bluegrass and Blues have done. I love the fact that we Americans (in theory) don't need to place ourselves in cultural boxes and compartments; we are one nation. Our white culture has influenced Black culture; Hispanic culture has influenced white (Piñatas, anyone!?); and Asian culture has infused our places of work and schools. Music, art, habits, food, you name it, arose from not one group of people, but all. This is why I feel these arguments about what is 'true' American and what is 'un-American' are extremely dangerous and shallow: for one, they are trying to put an unruly nation into boxes of clear boundaries; and secondly, they are arrogant enough to claim that their culture (generally that of the white, southern, mountain/cowboy persona) hasn't been influenced by the 'wetbacks', 'niggers', 'yuppies', 'liberals','chinx' and 'communists' that live around them.

I guess what I'm saying, is that it is about time that my generation, the ones who love community, step up and show the world (and Sarah Palin) that we Americans are not only proud of our right to "bear arms", but are proud of our messy history as a nation of 'them'.

I started this post by claiming that Americans are often woefully uneducated about the world around them. I would also add to this that we Americans are living in a glazed over, post-consumerist society where all things that can't be bought are thrown to the side. Most European nations (not that they are much different, even though they would vehemently claim to be) do a much better job of preservation. They take care of architecture, farm land, stories, plays and legends. We Americans, with our captivation of always 'headed West' seemed to have lost our cultural roots to the big box stores...

All Czech people know their cultural history; they recite the poetry, the songs, the fairy tales and the music. In America, I don't think we do a good job of appreciating our folk culture: Tall-tales, spirituals, hymns and literature. Recently I've been browsing through some Czech literature and have been attempting to read some of their famous authors. I've found the going to be tough, as my language skills are not good enough, but I've found myself becoming more attached to the nation; and yes, it's only through their writers: I understand some humor, sayings, cultural stories and historically important events. I begin to see how Czech language can be a descriptive language, not just a sterile one in text books. It is a joy. Reflecting this experience back on my own country, I'm sad to say that I've been very negligent in reading some of the American legends of literature: Kerouac, Bukowski, Hemingway, Twain, Poe, Sinclair, Cummings and Lewis, etc. My challenge both to myself and to the rest of us is to reconnect with our country by turning off Glenn Beck and the 'right vs. left' war that rages in the streets, and instead, pick up a book and learn about our nation through the prose of some of the best writers the world has seen. I think what we will find in the books and through the authors, is an in-depth struggle and discussion about what America, and the American people are meant to be. So, is anyone with me!?

Oh no, I don't have my calender...

Oh no, I don't have my calendar...this often pops into my head and I begin to panic a little. Did I lose it or is it just at home on the table? I'll search through my bag once or twice more before giving up and writing the information what needs to go into my planner temporarily on the back of my hand.

In many ways I'm completely dependent on my 2-year planner, since I would probably forget many the things that Jeremy and I have planned for the church or the days and at what time we will hangout with friend. However, it's also a good way for me to look back on what we have done over the past two years and remember things a little more clearly. For example, I can look back and see that on June 17th, 2008 we went to Kennywood with some of our friends for Beaver county just before we left for the Czech Republic, on October 18th, 2008 we went to Jitka's house for the first time, on April 7th, 2009 Jeremy met our friend Vlada at Tesco so they could go on a run together, on December 12th 2009, we spent the day with Honza and his mom and on April 10th, 2010 we will going to Moravsky Krumlov with Jarda.

But my planner is not only filled with past and future plans, but with new Czech words, phone numbers, birthdays, favorite Czech meals, to do lists, book titles and music groups. And about a month ago I was happy to find that I was not the only person who seemed to write everything and anything in their planner. The grandmother of our good friend Filip (Frantiska) also writes down everything, including daily temperature and if it rained, snowed or was sunny. She has 30 years of past calendars that she can look back at and see what was going on in her life, and she told me she is going to continue to do so because it helps her remember each year, since time goes so fast (plus it's really interesting!). Frantiska is proud of the fact that she can look and see what the coldest day was during the last 30 years, when the earliest spring weather arrived, what she was doing when communism fell and when her grandchildren were born. And it makes me happy that Jeremy and I have also made it onto her calendar because I know that when she looks at 2009 and 2010 she will remember us too.

I guess that's what I'm trying to get at. I hate that I'm completely dependent on my planner, but I love the fact that there is so much written in it and I can see how much we have done and some of the things we have learned.

Recount of a time with Tomas Bisek

I heard his voice begin to tremble before I realized he was sobbing. The sun was shooting diagonal rays of light across his lap, forcing him to squint his eyes whenever he turned his head towards the direction where I was seated. That was when I knew our talk had become emotional. Jarda and I had been sitting for the past two hours listening to this man recount his days and experiences as a pastor under the communist regime. At times, the interview was saturated with guarded, sheepish answers to probing questions; and at others, it unfurled with candid and honest reflections.

Tomas Bisek is well-known in dissident circles here in the Czech Republic. He is one of the few pastors in the Evangelical Church who talk at great length about their past in opposition to the former Regime and its secret police, the StB. In the 10 years that he was a pastor in the small village of Teleci (about 7 km away from Policka), Tomas and his family were interrogated numerous times, monitored, harassed, threatened and, most famously of all, listened in on, thanks in part to implanted 'sound devices' in the ceiling of their house. The StB viewed Tomas as a leading intellectual figure in Czech dissident movement, especially the time right before and immediately after the signing of Charter 77 (of which he took part); culminating a few years later with the revocation of his preaching license, the relegation to life as a lumber-jack, and finally, emigration to Scotland in the year 1982.

At the beginning of the year, I know that I had told many of you I was working on a project to interview pastors and learn more about their experiences under communism. I had hopes of speaking with a minimum of five, but since that time, have only been able to hear from three. Tomas, due to health problems stemming from a battle with thyroid cancer, was very difficult to get a hold of: He flies back to Scotland about every other month. Jarda and I waited patiently for the chance to speak with him, which luckily came about a week ago. We had both anticipated this opportunity for quite some time, but had reservations: Would Tomas be well enough to speak for long periods of time? Would he want to speak to two twenty-five-year-olds? Would the questions seem armature and naive? Would I say something to offend him? Would he be short and curt?

I'm happy to say that my worries quickly left as soon as I entered into his quaint house, on one of the few peaceful, quiet streets in Prague. We took our places in the kitchen, across from a window that looked out over the hills and the Vltava River, giving us a prime view of the Cerna Most quarter of Prague, with its array of drab-looking, communist-era apartment buildings. The sun was shining and the temperature was warm enough to go on a stroll in short sleeves. It just seemed destined to be a positive day.

I saw the scar that ran across his throat as a reminder that life is fragile and fleeting. He can't produce saliva, so speaking has become quite a laborious undertaking. Every two minutes or so, a drink must be taken. If he is negligent in this, his lips parch and crack, quickly, right before your eyes (A few times during our interview, this did happen. He was so involved in thinking and talking that he forgot about his present state. This left me feeling guilty: here I was taking his attention off of his current affliction with memories from the past, and for most people it would be a welcome deferment, but when your past is like Tomas', it seemed a little unfair). I had heard from a few of my friends in Policka that the cancer has made him prone to suffer through bouts of extreme exhaustion; they were unsure as to whether he would be willing to answer more than 10 questions, let alone the 25 I had 'cut' down to. But, I had plans to ask 25, and in the end, we talked a whole lot more.

I can't explain to you my immediate feelings at seeing him sob. I knew that the last question was charged with emotion for any pastor, but with Tomas, it felt different. He didn't speak to Jarda or me much about his thoughts on the passing of life, a reality he has, I'm sure, been forced to ponder, but when I asked him about forgiveness and reconciliation, he answered with an openness and honesty that is not seen from Czechs. I believe it stemmed from a yearning to heal.

About 10 years ago the denomination attempted to set up a 'Reconciliation Committee', which would be the main avenue through which pastors, who have struggled with coming to terms with their experiences under communism, would be able to heal and receive counseling. This committee is necessary, because the Evangelical church has a very gray past when it comes to the regime and the forty years of its tyrannical rule. There were pastors who chastised their fellow brothers for being against the regime; there were church members who informed on elders; there was open debate within the seminary; and, the highest 'Synod' council was influenced, at times, by the Communists themselves. What this has led to today, is extreme guilt and shame on the part of some who might now have to live with the fact that they were on the 'wrong side' (not that this applies, because this history is very complicated and the line between 'good' and 'bad' was nearly invisible. But, you can imagine the human anguish for some of the pastors). The committee was a failure in that not one pastor came forward to speak publicly; this was only exacerbated by the fact that one of their colleagues committed suicide: Many believe that shame had pushed him to a point of no return. He didn't reach out for help. Consequently, when I asked Tomas about reconciliation and forgiveness, he answered that it is a pivotal question for the Evangelical Brethren today. I had originally asked the question in hopes of hearing him speak about forgiveness in regards to those who had persecuted him and his family, and to the contrary, I found that it is the church and his colleagues, the men who studied the scriptures, who've found it hardest not to forgive the StB, but themselves. And that is a battle all of us know too well.

Reflections- community and home

About two years ago, I remember writing my thoughts upon leaving for the Czech Republic. I was worried that I would not be accepted into the community, and feel like one who is not wanted, or like a 'foreigner' who doesn't belong. In contrasting this, I spoke about the comforts of Beaver County, home. The bridges that traverse the bends of the Ohio River, the Con-rail rail yards, with screeching and yawning groans that echo up the hills; the river towns that dot the banks as the Ohio winds its way south, turning in a great bend at the confluence of Beaver Creek, near the Beaver County Bowl. I was comforted by chili poured on top of some fries and the grime let over from years of men and women, of the working-class inclination, who've gone to the Brighton Hot Dog Shoppe for a quick lunch. In essence, I was reminiscing about the fact that I had become part of the community in my own small way: I had friends, became comfortable in a routine and could map the roads and by-ways of the county when I closed my eyes: The smells linger and the beat-up road signs that give mile-markers to Pittsburgh and Beaver Falls reveal themselves. I guess, two years ago, I was asking this question: "Would I have that in the Czech Republic?"

I've walked all over this city. There have been some roads that I've only stepped on a few times, but a vast majority of the alleyways and cobblestones of Policka have become well-acquainted with the tred of my boots. Walking outdoors has enable to be meet some people face-to-face; they see me in a hurry, when I'm late for a meeting; they gaze at my scrunched-up face when wind is blasting snow flakes into my ears; they've come to observe me and Jamie when we go on meandering strolls around town, looking in windows and making our way past the local brewery, up into the woods to a place called 'Lebohi'; they also notice when I shave, or when I have a haircut; when I buy rolls and what I normally eat for lunch on a Thursday afternoon. All of this would not be a reality, if I was sheltered and isolated within the climate-controlled comfort of an automobile. If that were how I made my way around Policka, who would I be to those people who walk the same path to work as me? I would never be seen here; found and heard only by the color of my paint job and the muffler of my small, 4-cylinder engine. Cars are not exactly the best way of creating/familiarizing oneself with a new community, or 'home'.

Just this past weekend, Jamie and I found ourselves at the last ball of the winter season. We were invited by our friends Jiri and Renata Blandovi. Upon entering through the giant, wooden door, I was stuck by the amount of people who I've come to 'know'. Now, their names are a definite mystery to me and I really have no idea what their job is, but I do know that I've seen them all before, and they know me. I've nodded to many of these people on the street and seen a majority of them at social gatherings; I know which of them is a good dancer, and which one was a former cyclist on the Czech-national team; I know who is the lock-smith, and which man is the lawyer who graduated with Jiri in 1993. At one point during the night, after about two hours of dancing, drinking and talking, I felt a woman drape her hands across both of my shoulders. Shocked as to who this might be, I immediately turned around in my seat, and was surprised to see standing behind me a woman about the age of 40, with creased cheeks and shortly-cropped hair with multi-colored streaks of yellow and red running throughout. Her eyes were very large and dark, which gave them a look of tenderness, back dropped with a gaze that signified a love for a party. I smelled a little alcohol on her breath. Speaking in direct and rapid Czech, she asked both Jamie and me how we're enjoying ourselves. She told us her name was 'Alena' and she thought both of us were just 'great'. Now, in most situations, I would probably assume that this woman got confused as to who we were, maybe she thought we were long-lost friends or something? But I recognized her as well; I knew her from somewhere. Then, it hit me; she is the woman who works at the bakery! Jamie and I buy eight rolls there every Thursday for our lunch. We're so consistent, that upon us walking in the door, the women who work behind the counter usually have a bag pulled out and are in the early stages of taking the cylindrical bread from its basket under the glass. Having realized who this woman was, I said back to her, "Ahh, Alena, you're our friend from the bakery! We love your rolls!" Her face revealed a deep smile, and her hands gave me two pats on the back--the kind that aunts usually give their nephews and nieces. I made an attempt at introducing myself, but the name Jeremy is so foreign to the Czech ear, that many older-generation 'Polickans' would never be able to pronounce it. I tried three times to slowly tell her my name--even getting right next to her ear--but it was to no avail. I quite trying and was content to leave the conversation there. She turned just as quickly as she had arrived, and went back to her table and her white wine. But, Jamie and I had been greeted by a woman we only knew through the acquaintance that comes with habit and routine, and it was a great feeling.

In some ways I feel I'm more intimately connected to Policka than I am with Ambridge. I mean, how many times have I walked the streets of Ambridge enough to know where in the sidewalk puddles linger after a rain? Have I been down on those streets often enough to get a feel for the movement and habits of the citizens that walk up and down Merchant Street (if there are any)? Have I ever gone gazing through windows and into stores and know who the shop owners are, and which one of them usually carries the best paper, and which one of them has the cheapest candy? In reality, my only investment in 'community living' in Ambridge has been to the gas station, to the eye doctor and the occasional trips to The Maples Restaurant or to Rooks bar--all of which are predicated on me driving to my destination.

I think in the United States we are in a very real crisis of community, and it doesn't just stem from the individualistic mentality of American culture. No, it is very real in how we physically build our 'townships' and our communities. The fact that we in America can have 'communities' that look like Cranberry, PA is almost unbelievable. Cranberry, in no sense of the word, is a community: it is a series of strip malls, targets, wal-marts Barns & Nobles and stop lights. There are houses there, but all of them are of the McMansion sort, laid out in very rational, often boring, rows. Everything looks the same: cars pulse in and out during the summer and winter, but there are no people walking. I think if I was to make a count of the amount of sidewalk that traverses Cranberry (a city that claims to be one of the fastest-growing in America), I would be shocked if I found more than 2 miles, all together. There are no local bakers, no art galleries, no private book stores, no small grocers, no butchers, no local pubs, not even a school. It's appalling. America's communities are dying from a lack of craftsmanship (working in the bakery of Giant Eagle does not count you as a 'Baker' by trade, I'm sorry), and complete destruction of centrality. Pretty soon, I envision that American cities from the East Coast to the sand-flats of New Mexico, will only be culturally unique from each other by the few food offerings that find their way onto the menu of the local Olive Garden: Maybe in Pittsburgh we'll still have our "Pirmanti brothers-style sandwich", and in New Mexico, one can order a spicy bean burrito. Let's face it, with the way all American cultural institutions are going, even our most hallowed and respected 'food-joints' will probably die off and be co-opted into large, more detached corporations.

I guess what I'm saying, is that in Policka, I've found community and place.

When friends ask me what the hardest aspect about leaving will be, I often tell them losing my routine. I know that on Monday, I can go the gym at 5 pm and pay forty krouns. On Wednesday, the waiter at my favorite pub knows exactly what I want for lunch; when I walk in the door, he immediately yells "Pivko?!" from behind the bar, which is him asking if I'll have my regular drink. Before I can even answer yes, he has grabbed a freshly-washed glass and has made the motion to open the tap. He knows what I'll say, I've been going there too regularly for him to guess (in all my life in western Pennsylvania, I've never been so attached to a place, that those who work there know my habits so well that they don't need to officially inquire). I can see the woman in the beige-fur coat, saggy eyes and hap-hazardly applied lipstick, make her morning walk to work. I know when she is late and when we are late by relation to where, along the path, we meet every morning: if she is in the park, we’re both on time, but if we're near the round-a-bout, Jamie and I need to pick up the pace.

So, I guess the answer to my question from two years ago, whether I would be able to find community and comfort in Policka like that of home, has been answered. Now, it seems I'm starting to have the possible-lack-of-community anxiety again, but this time, it's about my 'home'. Hmm, weird...

Oh, Canada.

I am convinced that people yearn to be unique. Ironically, that uniqueness is usually predicated or rooted in characteristics, cultural traits or worldviews that are shared not by one individual, but by millions. So, the person who strives to be ‘different’ or ‘set apart’ is, in the end, just one of a whole.

The Olympics, and my time in Europe, have been interesting backdrops to this reflection. Most Europeans, when speaking about each other, have a funny way of disregarding the cultural habits of some places (Ukraine, Russia, Slovakia) as being a little ‘less’ on the intellectual scale, and upholding those of other places (Italy, France, Spain, Switzerland) as if they can do no wrong as a people and a nation—so sometimes, when talking with Czechs, I am often reminded that they are the pinnacle of ‘culture-making’; it’s just that no one in the world has yet to realize it. On more than one occasion, I’ve heard some Europeans claim pride in the language that they speak: ‘it’s the most difficult on earth (Eurocentric anyone?!); “it’s the most melodic language”; “the greatest literature was written in this dialect.”, and on. Or, if language has been tried and used, Europeans claim uniqueness in lifestyle, in their culinary accomplishments, musical influence, fine arts, way of life—or , love-making prowess.

We Americans jump into this bantering and bickering with our national ‘legends’ of being the proverbial ‘City on a Hill’; or for being the worlds’ first truly multi-cultural experiment, where all were given equal rights in both civic discourse and political engagement; or, we talk of American ingenuity and military triumphs always on the ‘good’ side, never on the ‘bad’; or, we speak of an unheralded cultural influence in film, music, advertisement and business. We are, after all, the worlds lone ‘Superpower’ and doesn’t that have to stand for some kind of…GREATNESS on the part of the American People?

Canadians, on the other hand, have hockey.

I don’t know about many of you, but the way the Canadians were reacting to the Olympics was almost sad: They had pinned their entire national hope and pride on a sport and on ‘owning the podium’. All week I was told through newspaper reports and television how ‘Un-Canadian” it was for the government to make such patriotic-driven, bombastic exclamations about ‘taking the game back’ and yadda, yadda, yadda. I don’t want to chastise them too muh for being that way, because it really is important for the people of a nation to take pride in the things that make them a community and a true nationality set apart from others around them, but I was a little annoyed. Of course, this sometimes is taken to extremes where one claims to reign over all, because of the ‘cultural superiority’ that they shine down upon the others: think of the “white man’s burden” or “the ‘Great Grandfather’, Soviet Russia.”

And ironically, when I heard that the USA would be playing the Canadian team in the gold-medal game, I was more than interested. I wanted to win. I wanted to embarrass Canada. I aggressively wanted to proclaim American superiority over the “Canuks”, not just through cultural influence, but through hockey; a game that I knew if we Americans had one-upped up them in, it would be one of the most devastating blows to Canadian national and cultural identity.

I had, in effect, become what had nauseated me from the beginning: a patriotic, loud-mouth who can’t seem to enjoy the fact that the international world was coming together for games of mutual respect and admiration. I didn’t want to cheer on the USA because I wanted to show my support for athletes. No, I wanted to cheer for the USA to the detriment of another. I wanted to feel good about being ‘American’ for once, not ashamed.

How embarrassing.

I think that it is important for us to remember that when we want to take pride in being a little different, unique or special, or whatever other generic word I can use, maybe we should shed national flags, musical genres, culinary achievements, sports teams, clothing styles, ethnicities and language. The fact of the matter is, is that majority of what we claim to take pride in was never actually chosen by us as individual people; we were born into it, or it happened by chance. This is also why I think national stereotypes are so polarizing, and in the end, completely unintelligent and debased. How can you claim cultural, intellectual superiority over another person just because they were born in America and not in Paris?

Of course, there are times where people really do make their notch in the world by making decisions to align their talents and tastes with uniqueness, but many times—in regards to music, art, fashion, etc—the influence to go down that path was laid not through their own thinking, but through the influence of friends, parents, education, etc.

What I really want as a human being is to be set apart as an individual, all the while knowing that it is nearly impossible to do so; we humans need each other, and we can’t be ‘human’ without having family, friends and co-workers around us. So, I guess the personal attempt at seeking out a truly exclusive place in this earth, as an individual ‘somebody’, is pretty hopeless and futile: We usually end up looking the same anyway, even when we want to be very ‘counter-cultural’.

I guess what I’m saying is, is that the shallow distinctiveness that we get from waving a flag, speaking another language, eating a certain cuisine, is not respectable due to the fact that those usually are passively acquired. I think it would be much more respectable if people claimed exceptionality through making personal decisions to live a certain lifestyle—in as much as it is possible —independently. And, I guess if that is the case, then we could rid of national pride all together (the negative aspects of it, like what I experienced against Canada). Instead, people would group themselves by being ‘healthy-eaters’, ‘appreciators of art’, ‘justice seekers’, ‘polite-to-strangers people’, ‘passionate writers’, ‘thoughtful filmmakers’.