I am Chinese, a visitor from far away, forced to return to the country of my roots, a home I can no longer stomach.
A scant five years ago, I gave a young filmmaker a lift to his rented room in Hollywood. Traffic was thicker than the La Brea tar pits and the 25-minute drive took an hour. Strange. He cried. He loved this country so much that he begged me, as if I somehow had the power, to not let America become his oppressive home, where you needed government permission to pick a house or town in which to live. He wondered what it would be like to have a brother or sister.
Socialism’s central planning stipulated all parents could have only one child. Animated, he rapidly chatted about California’s beauty. Gone, temporarily, was the omnipresent feeling of watching what you say or think, lest a thought inadvertently escape and be dragged off to authorities. It might have been the first time I rooted for someone to become an illegal alien. This enthusiastic young Chinese filmmaker loved our food, our scenery, the abundance, energy, creativity, and, above all, that freedom to become the man he was supposed to be. I still wonder. Did he get that chance to become himself?
I am all my teachers, souls ranging from divinely gifted to profoundly mediocre, who taught me to speak, think, ponder, express, clock watch or not understand geometry. I did memorize one Hart High limerick, created in a geometry teacher’s honor: “Who is fat and wears a hat? A.I. — WOOBY!!!” Forgive me, dear sir in Heaven, I sing it to this day and still can’t pick a triangle out of a police lineup. I can scrub a sink squeaky clean, write reasonably well and respect deadlines. I’ve learned that if integrity is the only thing worth dying for, conversely, integrity must be the only thing worth living for. I am my high school basketball coach, who taught me how to be fierce, light-hearted and the fourth-quarter mentality that it’s never over.
I am the Fourth of July parade and the old, humorous insult ending in, “… and the horse you rode in on.” On horseback, I had the best seat in the country, riding tall in the saddle, leading out our local Independence Day parade, seeing thousands over the years, waving flags and blowing horns. Passionately, how they — we — love this country.
One thing I’m not? A Nazi. Why? Because I am my father, who slept on the ground, under snow, heat waves and artillery barrages. Dad shot, and was shot at, by actual Nazis. Through my father, I’m the questionable end result of John Quincy Adams’ tear-bringing quote: “I am a warrior, so my son may be a merchant, so his son may be a poet.” Too bad we don’t learn from poetry. Life is circular. We seem to always return to war.
I am the full moon, rising silent and majestic over a mountain atop my canyon. I am the nonstop chatter of AM radio, the surf splashing over my feet at the edge of the Pacific. I’d have to check the sofa for spare change, but there’s nothing stopping me from driving to Wyoming right now. No permits to fill out, no Chairman Mao May I. I am the open road. I’m the next newspaper column. There’s no mullah’s butt to kiss, no fear of offending a mucky muck, party leader or petty tyrant. I am free to speak, assemble or pray, as if, at this moment, I didn’t possess everything already.
There are dark sides to me, distant, but part of me nonetheless. I am the frothing homeless mad woman, the seething Antifa, cowardly plotting in the shadows. I know great souls who inspire, lead by example, give of themselves, make the world a better place. They are me, I am them. Which means, I’m also the thief, the beggar, bully, liar, profoundly sick and ugly. Yes. These souls are seeming light years distant in my day-to-day experience, but, neighbors nonetheless. No. Closer than that. They are the very part of me. I had a teacher who noted that our basic, true identity is our lowest common denominator. If that be true, my soul is in need of repair.
It always does, doesn’t it?
And yet, I hear America singing.
Rock. Classical. Jazz. Country. Blessed with imperfect pitch, sometimes it’s me singing, off-key, by my lonesome. It’s America. I get to make a joyful noise. In America, it’s all a song of discovery, of reflection, of freedom. It doesn’t necessarily require music, for I am the museum, the art gallery, the park bench, the window seat at a coffee shop.
I am the inventor, the healer, the farrier, the doughnut maker hard at work at 3 a.m. and the holiest of professions — the air conditioning repairman. Once, in San Francisco, I stopped for breakfast. I passed a Buddhist monk on the street, he in his orange robes, me in my cowboy hat. We smiled warmly at one another and nodded. Felt like I knew the guy for a thousand years. Probably did. Did I mention? I’m Buddhist, Catholic, Baptist, atheist, agnostic.
I’m the guy who gets out of his car on a busy street to help another guy push another guy’s stalled car out of the intersection. I’m the friendly conversation with a complete stranger in a grocery store. I am the billionaire, the sidewalk wretch, freefalling slow motion into perdition. I am a work in progress. I am the nurse, the annoying HOA Karen, the good mom, the good dad, the little kid on a swing, soaring without a care in the world.
Soon? It’s almost the Fourth of July. My birthday. I am one candle of many on a splendiferous cake.
In two days? I’ll be 250 years young. I am America.
Visit John Boston’s bookstore and eclectic online store with unique gifts for readers and writers at JohnBoston-Books.com. A lifelong SCV resident with 119 major writing awards and nearly 12,000 columns, Boston is the most prolific humorist and satirist in world history.
