America

It’s not that we have issues with supply and material goods. We’ve got trains and trucks and boats and airplanes that carry things around, work gets done, people always talk about work, getting a job and making money.

It's not like we don't worry about these things, rich or poor. But there’s something about the Autumn in San Francisco that's just silly; it's the way the people bundle up because it's getting cold. I go jogging in shorts and T-shirt to the verdant, misty island-hill oasis Buena Vista Park right above Haight St. A middle aged woman walks two dogs (it’s a dog park) she’s wearing sweats and a grim expression. It’s mid-November, Winter’s just around the corner. Bundle up.

But she's walking with loads of assets behind her. Or at least an economy that's definitely good for a loan or two, even today. Still, there's a sense that we're still connected to the Earth, and the seasons. It's ridiculous. How could we be? We're Americans!

So things move in America, people move, business gets done (here more than ever, indeed) but wherever Americans go they just coast, and they do it well because they've got the weight of all their assets behind them. We make it look easy.



Chile, on the other hand, makes it look hard. (Okay, maybe not that sleeping guy). But here's what I'm talking about: I just flew back down, and switched from December to June. The daytime heat is sweltering, but at the local Saturday fruit market, the vendors seem to scream with desperation, not gusto.

The Chilean film Machuca treats it really well, imprinted on my mind this gerbil like store-house culture that is Chile. Amidst the CIA backed national strikes designed to economically cripple the democratically elected socialist government of Salvador Allende, truck drivers stopped driving, and factory owners stayed at home. Food was scarce, lines were long and people were pretty nervous.

So the movie is about a rich pink kid who befriends a poor brown kid, but the one scene I'm talking about is the one where the rich pink kid's dad takes him on a trip to one of the store houses where they're allowed to like plunder, buying whatever they want, including liquor and tobacco, the kid gets creamy canned milk of course.

So they're all loaded up and they walk out all pimp style, loud rock music in the soundtrack, while there's a big line outside and signs saying that there's nothing left, it's closed, go home.

That kinda thing. Chile is gerbil-like storehouse culture. When Winter hits, the city turns black with smog and the people squint, pull their jackets tight and scuttle off to work. But America takes the Winter in stride. Makes it look easy. Having been gone for 10 months, and come back to the everyday immensity of America, I was astounded.

Of course, I should make a comment about my chauvinist use of the word "America." So Chile is also part of America (South America). The North American country called United States of America faces a nominal conundrum. As a friend pointed out, other Latin Nations (like Mexico) call themselves "United States of..." so the US thing doesn't really distinguish us. Saying "America" doesn't distinguish us. Really, the only thing that distinguishes us is the supremacy by which we've appropriated all these names to call ourselves. But what happens when that supremacy takes a break? What do we become? (Or at least, what do we call ourselves?)