The idea came to me on a treacherous drive home from the coast. Through the early morning fog, the lanes were barely visible — each reflective sign appearing like a ghostly warning to either swerve or meet my end among the skunk cabbage. Earlier in my drive, I’d placed Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bookends” album in the CD player. Skidding along the asphalt and hexxing each passing set of too-bright headlights, Paul Simon’s report from the zoo was far from mind. However, the song “America” caught my attention. Suddenly, the driving conditions seemed a poignant metaphor for Americans’ disillusionment; struggling to see beyond the darkness to the path ahead.
“Patriotism” has become too loaded a word. It’s the verbal equivalent of hitching a “DON’T TREAD ON ME” flag to your Ford F-150; it’s synonymous with hatred and big guns. Declaring your patriotism is a gross dismissal of the shame, anger, and fear you should be feeling, constantly. After all — readers who’ve seen a headline in the past eight years will know — there’s little to feel patriotic about.
The lyrics to Simon & Garfunkel’s song describe hitchhikers’ search for America. Squinting into the darkness ahead, I considered the implication that Americans themselves are lost and wondered how we begin to find our way. Promptly — several hours later, when I wasn’t driving — I messaged my co-editor, Eloise Beauvais: “I have a great article idea.”
Contrary to rumor, Eloise and I aren’t God. Rather than solving American malaise, we hoped to reclaim our own patriotism. We sought the America envisioned in Norman Rockwell paintings and Beach Boys hits, desperately partaking in The Great American Pastimes to discover the flag-wavers within ourselves. After all, what can a researched solution solve that a crackling hot dog can’t? Traveling across the Portland metropolitan area, once even several miles beyond it, we hoped to capture America: talking with folks, seeing sights, and eating grease. U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!
Kids in America
We began our trip with a bit of “Safe, Wholesome Family FUN!” at the roller rink. Entering the stagnant gymnasium, breathing podalic odors dating from 1905, our family — our photographer Amelia Cummings, Eloise, and I — was prepared for the cheapest “FUN” Oaks Park offers. After waiving our litigation rights and ensuring our “Safe” experience, we nervously approached a counter to pick up our skates. These seemed to date from 1905 as well, upholstered with stained rawhide; although the chemical orange wheels were a recent, thoughtful upgrade. Having laced our skates, we were ready to roll — as soon as we worked up the nerve to move a muscle.
When Amelia was a wee babe, she’d visited this roller rink oft. While Eloise and I pathetically gripped the sticky barrier, swarmed by cruel-hearted toddlers, Amelia skated literal circles around us. However, recalling my ice skating techniques, I gradually drifted from the barrier. Stiffly rolling in a straight, cautious line — left skate, right skate, left skate — I was exhilarated. Eloise, meanwhile, was having difficulty weaning her dependence on the barrier. She’d fallen several times, stranded on the glossy hardwood. “Why did I wear a skirt for this?” she lamented. After a few laps, Eloise decided we’d skated enough.
“We can’t leave until you succeed!” Amelia argued as Eloise furiously gripped the barrier.
“I’m sweaty, and tired, and my ass hurts, and I don’t want to succeed!” Eloise yelled back.
We decided to compromise, taking a breather at concessions. Within the roller rink is a throwback “diner” furnished with sticky benches and neon lighting. Observing the carpet crumbs, Amelia and I desperately hoped to convince Eloise that, despite her bruises, roller skating is fun. “It’s a pointless activity, rolling in circles, yet we have to succeed at it,” I argued. “It’s a perfect allegory for our article!” Eloise didn’t appreciate being an allegorical element. Still determined to earn our $13’s worth, Amelia and I skated a few rounds before closing.
While solemnly slipping off my skates, I observed a twenty-something man wobbling in the center of the rink. From his posture, legs spread awkwardly, it was clear he wasn’t an experienced skater. Attempting to roll forward, he fell hard on the floor. Watching him, I felt delighted. Not that he’d failed; but that, rather than cautiously gripping the barrier, he’d flung himself into public failure. As Janis Joplin sang, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose;” this man was free. Toddlers whirled about while the man struggled to regain his balance. Above them hung a somber American flag. Could this feeling, perhaps, be patriotism? I considered. This thought uplifted me as I reluctantly returned my skates. Having had all the wholesome fun we could handle, our family silently left the roller rink.
We Are the Champions
All-American roller skating dreams rotting dead by the highway, if anything, I felt more estranged from this country than before. Since roller skating failed to give us a newfound sense of patriotism — Alyson found the experience “American, but not proud,” and I found the experience “painful” — we turned to bowling, hopeful that we could discover patriotism by acting upon our inner middle-aged-white-suburban-dad-dreams. So, with two entirely willing participants (Amelia and Kat Meeker-Becker) haphazardly shoved into the trunk and $25 pocketed, we set off to the cheapest bowling alley we could find.
Upon our arrival at Milwaukie Bowl, we were hit with a waft of warm, pungent air. Some may call it sweat and grease, but those people would be wrong; this could only be the lost spirit of America reaching out to us. Despite the bowling alley’s perfect run-down ‘70s atmosphere and bowling pin bathroom signs, we felt far from patriotic. But, seeing the faded American flag dutifully hanging beside the lanes, Alyson and I knew we were in the right place. So, sitting on the chipped red and white plastic bench, we velcroed our oversized bowling shoes on and went to assert dominance over the other bowlers, even if initially intimidated by the man in the neighboring lane’s graceful twirls through the air as he let his ball go clunking down the lane like a deranged ballerina. By the end of this experience, we hoped to feel as patriotic as the gun-wielding eagles on gas station t-shirts.
We ended the first game feeling more patriotic than ever, in spite of sticky hands and low scores — though, let it be known, I am a marginally better bowler than Alyson. We knew this surge of patriotism could only be credited to the bowling alley’s atmosphere, alongside its playlist, with Alyson claiming that “The Jackson 5 [was] making [her] feel patriotic.” By the end of the first game, even our most reluctant friend, Amelia, had become The Belle of the Bowling Alley, achieving second place.
With only 20 minutes left to bowl, we were determined to speed through another round, not yet ready for the spirit of America to exorcize itself from our bodies and not wanting to waste a third of the hour we had already paid for. In this rushed second round, we, with the radical power of confirmation bias, made a game-changing and deeply scientific discovery: Thinking about America made us better bowlers. Suddenly, it made sense why the middle-aged men around us were so good at bowling. It wasn’t that they had more practice; it was that they were more patriotic than us.
After Alyson achieved a strike following a brief discussion about America, we all began to think American thoughts in hopes of improving our skill as she had, and it worked — for around five minutes. By our second or third patriotic turn we had all returned to our prior skill level. Either it was a fluke, or we ran out of American-enough thoughts, and Alyson doesn’t find Dustin Hoffman as patriotic as she thought she did. I prefer the latter answer.
When our time ran out, we ordered food and admired the checkerboard flooring. As we took in our surroundings, grease-covered pizza in hand, we were convinced that the ‘70s had to have been the most patriotic era. Between Watergate, hitchhiking, and aviator sunglasses, nothing could remind one of the Fourth of July more. Everyone in high spirits, we were decidedly more patriotic than before, though, in retrospect, I can’t stop myself from wondering if we really felt patriotic or if we were just in a good mood. In spite of my current worries, we felt closer to America.
Somewhere U.S.A.
I’ve always thought small towns are as enthralling of a mystery as whatever happened to the legendary D.B. Cooper, who is the one thing that makes me proud to be an Oregonian. Whenever I am reminded of him hijacking that Boeing — just another item in the case against Boeing — I’m ready to start kissing the filthy Oregon ground. He also adds another reason for why the ‘70s may have been the most patriotic era. This could be what prevents me from feeling patriotic: America lacks a national D.B. Cooper. Despite his actions reflecting on not just Oregon but America, I only view him as Oregon’s honor badge. I’m willing to admit that this could be a moral failing on my part, and maybe it’s wrong that the utmost thing I like about a state is a plane hijacking, but I don’t care.
Thus, still in search of my patriotic version of D.B. Cooper, we ventured to enigmatic rural Oregon, specifically Aurora. At 11:06 a.m. on a Saturday, Alyson picked me up in her sick ride — a Subaru Forester with a cracked windshield and a broken stereo — and we were off again, both overjoyed to finally partake in an American activity that didn’t force us into decades-old shoes whose construction may now be more dead skin cells than leather.
Since Alyson and I are yet to learn how to control the weather with our minds, it was gray and rainy as we navigated to Aurora. With the weather dampening not only the windshield but our mood, we would have to rely on our America playlist and each other’s company to keep us afloat. We spent the drive bickering about the weather and blaming the other for the decision to go this weekend rather than the previous one as we had planned.
We sat in miserable silence until a lengthy orchestral version of “The Pledge of Allegiance” played over the Bluetooth speaker. At first, we questioned who would listen to this song, before realizing we in fact were the idiots streaming this song, so through laughter, we placed a hand over our hearts.
When we arrived in Aurora, it was still raining; so, unable to fulfill our original plan of walking around and taking in the sights, we parked in front of a vintage store, which, according to the plaque hung on it, used to be the post office. We questioned if it was closed, unable to open the door until someone from inside yelled to us that we were twisting the doorknob the wrong way. With only a mild feeling of nauseating shame after learning that we are incapable of opening doors, we were finally able to enter. As we wandered through the stacks of pastel and floral Pyrex, we felt we had to speak with the store’s owner, thinking she must have something to teach us about patriotism, but to our misfortune, she was occupied.
Defeated, we returned to Alyson’s car. As Alyson struggled to open the jammed car door, we wondered if we should quit, but we knew it was too late to turn back; like Thelma and Louise, we had to keep going.
At the next stop on our journey, we found ourselves wandering past rows of vintage sinks and piles of old military gear. As we contemplated purchasing our very own rusty vintage playground equipment for a mere couple hundred dollars, we were slowly reminded of our purpose; we would find the pieces of America in piles of garbage and put it back together. Feeling more optimistic, we headed down to the counter and found ourselves talking with the store’s workers, hoping that they could help us find our misplaced patriotism.
When we asked them what makes them feel patriotic, after some struggle, the first worker, Eric, told us that he feels “privileged to live in this country,” but he “doesn’t feel patriotic.” After further brainstorming to come up with something more: “hell yeah, USA,” he added that diners made him feel patriotic, telling us about the steak and eggs he had had the previous day at a “gnarly diner.” He concluded by telling us that when he has fries with ranch he thinks, “Hell yeah, they don’t have that in Europe.” And perhaps that is one of the most uniting American concepts; while this country is divided over many things, we are all united by the desire to one-up Europe.
He turned to his co-worker, Ben, to see if he had any thoughts. Ben expressed that he appreciated the “diversity and vastness” of America, elaborating that he meant both the diversity in the people and the diversity found in nature. Both agreed that diners were patriotic and recommended two different diners to us.
Leaving the vintage store with a renewed sense of hope, we noticed it had finally stopped raining, and we set off to the last location. In the final store, we found many treasures, from a “The Godfather” mirror to fake deviled eggs. As we ventured through the winding store, we hypothesized the reasoning for the building’s labyrinthine layout. Alyson decided that it had to have been a brothel at some point.
As we wandered, we stopped to ask a woman we met, Janeen, what made her feel patriotic. She told us that “every morning [she wakes] up in a free country [she feels] patriotic,” adding that she “worries for the world [her] granddaughters will inherit.”
With much to think about, we left the store and were disappointed to notice the historic plaque on the outside stating it used to be a grocery store, debunking Alyson’s brothel theory.
With nothing left to do in the small town, we began our drive out of Aurora. As the town disappeared behind us, “American Pie,” played for the umpteenth time. Alyson’s phone had decided that we didn’t want to hear the entirety of our playlist; we had obviously put 64 songs on a playlist to listen to the same nine-minute-long song on repeat. However, as “American Pie” played, we were reminded that we needed to get some real food.
Truckin’
Growing boys need sustenance, and that’s what we’d hoped to accomplish next. However, finding the Burger Hut restaurant closed, we needed a new plan. The rain had returned when we parked at the American Market in “historic” Hubbard — a small town southwest of Aurora. “We could go in there,” I suggested, pointing at the market.
“What are we going to do, buy gum?” Eloise replied.
“We could go to my brother-in-law’s weed shed in Woodburn” — a “weed shed” is precisely what it sounds like. “It has an Xbox.”
A man wearing star-spangled sweatpants exited the market, yelling into his cell phone. We took this as an omen to get the hell out of there.
“All roads lead to Walmart!” Dwight D. Eisenhower exclaimed as he signed the Federal-Aid Highway Act of 1956. However, approaching the supermarket, we failed to match his enthusiasm. Ahead, a man pushed a shopping cart containing a solitary six-pack of beer — “abandon all hope,” his gaze seemed to say. Aimlessly wandering the fluorescently lit aisles, we considered why we’d come. When you think of America, you think of Walmart, and yet examining deals on 40’’ televisions left us cold.
“We could buy ranch,” Eloise suggested, recalling Eric’s advice. I shook my head, feeling miserable. No closer to discovering our patriotism, we headed home. We hit traffic on I-5, the cherry topping our disappointing trip abroad. Counting the cars ahead, I began to doubt whether we’d ever find America — or ourselves.
[Thursday] in the Park
BASEBALL! BASEBALL! BASEBALL! We decided to end our search with the Great American Pastime. Recovering from the previous weekend’s disappointments, Eloise was unable to play. Fortunately, Amelia offered to play Eloise’s role: “I can be negative.”
We arrived at the field on a picturesque afternoon, equipped with a 40-pound bat and wishful thinking. After dividing into teams — Liberty (Amelia and I) and Justice (our friend Kat and her partner Kadin) — we were ready to play ball.
To phrase it kindly, our game was pathetic. Discovering that none of us could pitch, we decided it’d be easier to pitch for ourselves. Picture this: I’m standing at home plate, squinting through the blinding sunlight to my target — the Big Blue Sky. I toss the baseball up, up, up, and with an impassioned swing … miss. Now, picture this twice more. Our game was no more than a series of strikes and exhilarating bunts.
Amelia decided we’d had enough before we began — “I want America to burn” — and after several rounds of failure, we decided to set a low, low bar: make it to home. Finally, Kadin hit a glorious homerun, the baseball soaring like a spherical eagle overhead. Kadin needlessly ran to first base, Kat to third, as Amelia scrambled to grab the renegade baseball. “PASS IT TO ME!” I yelled, to no avail. Kat leisurely trotted to home; Justice had prevailed.
“Liberty died,” Amelia commented, kicking the dust.
Following our exhilarating game, we decided to enjoy the intoxicating sunshine near the Willamette River. Resting on a steel-grid dock, legs dangling in the freezing water, I felt particularly patriotic. Kadin skipped stones as I denied the loss of sensation in my toes.
Suddenly, faint singing drifted across the beach. A man stood strumming a transparent ukulele at the water’s edge, singing to nothing in particular, or perhaps, to the Earth itself. We cautiously approached him, fearing that sudden movement would frighten him away. His white ponytail flowing, the man performed “Let’s Dance” with unapologetic gusto — we’d discover his set was strictly Bowie. He’d apparently noticed us listening, telling us the ukulele was “a gift from a mermaid.” He pointed to a few logs protruding from the river, what he called “The Sellwood Stump Stage”: “That’s my usual venue … of course, you have to swim to get there.” We listened intently as he began singing “Tonight,” dedicated to an ill friend of his.
Entranced by this mythical being, I considered the man I’d observed at the roller rink. I pictured him falling on his ass, his failure exposed to critical eyes. I considered the man rolling off with his six-pack of beer at Walmart and the man in red, white, and blue sweatpants at American Market. Each of them had confronted a cruel existence with life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. After all, patriotism lies within the freedom to do whatever you want — society be damned.
“Don’t forget to vote this fall!” the man yelled, evaporating into a cloud of glittery mist. We were convinced we’d had a collective hallucination.
“Did he hear me when I asked him to play ‘Magic Dance?’” I asked Amelia. She was hoping to request this song, and miraculously, he sang it.
“I don’t think so,” she replied, mystified.
We walked through the park in silence, in awe of our fortune.
America
I’d missed the encounter with the older man, but still, I was moved by the tales of his Bowie covers and possible wizardry. Finally, we felt we were nearing the end of our journey, so recalling Eric’s recommendation, we felt moved to finally try out the “gnarly diner” he had told us about, deciding it was the most natural end to our search.
Pulling into the parking lot, we were greeted by the towering sign: “HOT CAKE HOUSE OPEN 24 HOURS.” After entering, we looked over the menu, briefly considering the namesake pancakes or the previously recommended steak and eggs. After a lengthy discussion, we settled for the pinnacle of American diner food: the cheeseburger. Disappointed that milkshakes were unavailable, we had to settle for free water. Over our feast we discussed the great American sights we’d had the privilege of seeing on our trips, like dinosaur statues and vintage trucks. Though we were aware that all journeys had to end, we were unready for this one’s demise.
As we finished our burgers, we reached the realization that we had avoided from the start. After everything, perhaps we could never find the America we had sought when we embarked on our journey; we would only find fragments of it in sticky ancient roller skates, the whir of bowling machines, and ranch dressing. Unable to speak, we pushed in our chairs and returned to the car. As we pulled our seatbelts on, we knew what we had to do. Finally, we understood that we would never have a simple answer, and the search for America is neverending. Perhaps this country is too complex to give us one concrete resolution.
Foot hitting the pedal, it was like we were being steered somewhere by the ghost hands of America. As a trip that was supposed to be around an hour turned into a day of driving to seemingly nowhere, finally, over the horizon, we could make out the Grand Canyon (Crown Point). Each looking to the other, we reached an agreement: One simple search could never solve a country’s disillusionment. With that, our hands clasped across the center console, tire left solid ground, and the car flew into the sunset and down to a promised watery grave; we’d gone to look for America.
