Loving Life and Exploring Death in America

Several years ago, a remark attributed to Osama bin Laden (yes, THAT bin Laden) has stayed with me, something to the effect of “We love death. The U.S. loves life. That is the difference between us two.” Take this for what you will, but I know there is a lot of truth to this statement, at least the part about the U.S. loving life. Compared to a lot of other countries and cultures, many Americans have a lot of reasons to love life, in the sense that being an American or living in America generally affords many opportunities. Obviously, crime, hate, poverty, and other negativities afflict this country, but the degree of this hardship pales in comparison to troubles existent in other nations: we are not a war-ravaged country, or wholly destitute; our legal system is set up to avoid governmental corruption, and our media is so fierce, any wrongdoing or sketchiness will be accounted for. Though injustices are inevitable, programs are set up in this country so that justice can for the most part reign; basically, our constitution gives us basic rights that many other countries don’t have, and we have the freedom to speak up about anything without the fear of persecution, and even death.

Anyway, I think you get my drift. America is not a third world country run by a corrupt government, drug lords, or by no government at all. Our culture, then, highly values life because our lives are capable of being enjoyable; at the very least, the possibility of a pleasant, worldly existence makes the idea of living in America promising. The American Dream, right? So, on one level, enjoying a worldly life in America may end up sounding materialistic and superficial, but the consumerism in this country makes this undoubtedly true, to some extent, at least. Regardless, a lot of people in America can live relatively peaceful lives, making life more appealing than death. I think it’s safe to assert, then, that most Americans don’t LOVE death; some might be fascinated with it, but for the most part, death is something to be avoided (by medications, treatments, etc.), youth is highly valued (I think this is obvious), and dying is ultimately a negative, scary thing we don’t really want to get into or think about. Although I don’t think other less fortunate nations love death, either, I think they are more familiar with it because their everyday lives tend to be surrounded by it. They are less removed from death, so (sadly?) they understand it to be a part of life; it ends up not being as terrible. Maybe (warning: generalization forthcoming) death even becomes a release, a sort of freedom from the atrocities they are continuously faced with, or maybe just their upbringing and religious views make death less scary. I’m not sure, but I know young people in America don’t really grow up with the elderly in their homes (which, in many cultures, was a common occurrence back in the day); they are usually outside of the home in assisted living homes, retirement communities, etc., so they are separate from a child or teenager’s daily life. This is significant because individuals then become unfamiliar with the normal process of dying; instead, death is something frightening and horrific that they can only experience through television crime shows, medical shows, the news, horror movies, etc. So, when death does affect us, when death does enter our daily lives, when someone we love and care for does die (especially when their passing is sudden and seemingly too early), we are left in a troubled, confused state. The grieving process and subsequent continued existence for the living become the ultimate unknown, a sort of nightmare. We, being American, are geared for everything vibrant, everything that produces something, for progress; we are not, for the most part, prepared to handle the realities of death. At the very least, the realities of death for the living in the 21st century aren’t usual or preferred topics of conversation.

Ayelet Waldman, though, explores the grieving process in her latest novel and our August book club selection Red Hook Road, delving into how unexpected deaths affect the personal lives of the living, how they affect families and marriage, and how humans recoup so that their existence isn’t wholly destroyed by the loss of loved ones. She takes on this uncomfortable and painful topic for the benefit, I think, of her readers. Stay tuned for our weekend post, which will further reflect upon the aforementioned topics and other intriguing issues Waldman goes into in Red Hook Road.

Good Ol' America: Who is Her Shakespeare? Does She Even Have One?

Sometimes, when I’m feeling sorry for myself, I despair about the lack of focus in my life. During such grumblings, I wish I had a more defined identity, or, in other words, I think about how great I could have been, or could have excelled, at one thing IF I would have focused on just one of my interests. Instead, because I seem to be fascinated with a multitude of things (reading, writing, teaching, biking, hiking, cooking, wine, socializing, family, movies, theatre, sports, dogs, etc.), I feel as if I’m pretty good at a lot of things, but not excellent at one major thing. Now, don’t get me wrong: this isn’t a pity party; there are much worse things to be worried about, and I have long ago accepted that I am easily distracted (I like to think of myself as a Renaissance woman). I am just exploring who I am, and what factors in to my identity. Am I the quintessential American—a fortunate individual who has been allowed so many freedoms that I take advantage of them, but in the process, occasionally feel sidetracked from reaching my full potential? Well, I guess to answer this question, what it means to be “American” needs to be defined. What comprises our nation’s identity (a seemingly impossible question to adequately answer, but I’ll give it a go)?

My thoughts regarding the character of America developed from a book review of Stuart Kelly’s Scott-land: The Man who Invented a Nation in The Economist (http://www.economist.com/node/16690869?story_id=16690869). Although the reviewer found the text unfocused and a bit amateurish, he does come to a clear conclusion after his assessment: Sir Walter Scott, a prolific Scottish poet and novelist of the early 19th century, was a “genius” responsible for shaping Scotland’s national identity. All of this man’s work, his authorship—particularly his historical novels—played an enormous role in giving Scotland a distinct sense of self, a collective uniqueness, just as Shakespeare had done for England. Understandably, there are naysayers who repudiate Scott, believing his impact was not as significant (Twain and Ruskin among them), but nonetheless, Scott’s immense popularity extended beyond Scotland, and can hardly be denied.

Regardless of Scott’s actual amount of influence, this notion of how literature and authorship define a nation’s identity struck home. Which author(s) best characterizes America, land of the free and home of the brave? How has American literature shaped the country’s identity, if you believe it has? Who is our Shakespeare? When trying to answer this question, it was extremely difficult for me to narrow down the choices to one or even two authors. Washington? Jefferson? Hmmm. It was easy to come up with regional authors who most appropriately formulated a certain area’s uniqueness: East, Hawthorne; South, Twain, Stowe, and Faulkner; Midwest, Hemingway and Fitzgerald (though I don’t know if that would really be applicable; France and Spain might be more accurate); West, Steinbeck and Stegner; where do you fit in, Melville? ;) The East? The wild sea? I guess that “leaves” me with Walt Whitman, the “poet of democracy,” who I think is actually a pretty good choice, in terms of how he changed how America thought of herself; if I had to pick one author, he’s the one. I’m sure there a ton of other authors who I have not listed here that seem more appropriate to you (Emerson, Dickinson, Kerouac, McCarthy, etc.), but I think that’s the point: we are a nation comprised of many authors, and everyone will have a different idea of who has influenced America’s nationhood the most. Our identity, then, is an amalgamation of lots of things. We are a melting pot of cultures, correct, so a lack of a strict sense of self practically seems normal. Instead of fighting my many interests and tendency towards distraction, maybe I should celebrate my freedom and ability to actually pursue my intrigues. I think Whitman put it best when he claimed “Be curious, not judgmental.” Maybe I should stop judging myself so harshly, and allow my curiousity to thrive.

But is this lack of a clear American identity a good thing? Aren’t many countries considered melting pots these days? What do you think? If it’s clearer to you, please lend me your thoughts. After all, I think the relevance of a nation’s quality and characterization is always relevant and meaningful, and should not be taken for granted. Entities across the globe are constantly fighting to identify themselves, to stand for something in particular that’s separate from other countries/groups (Kosovo and Catalonia, for example); can we—can literature—shape and appropriately define America, or is her identity always in flux?

--Shelley