Today, I gave Elisabeth back her very first journal, in which she wrote loving tributes to unicorns, hamsters, and me. Well, except for the time we went to Circus-Circus. Apparently, I was a lot of fun that day — until I wasn’t. “When we got home, mom was a GROUCH! So I went to my room because she was very unpleasent.” Twenty years have passed, and I don’t remember that day at all, and she probably doesn’t either, but somehow I wish I could take it back. I prefer the time she was asked to write about her favorite hero in fourth grade and she wrote about me. What does your hero do, the teacher’s handout asked. “She takes bubbles baths and makes spaghetti,” my daughter answered.

At the time, I was managing the advertising of a major hotel-casino. One of the perks was free entertainment and dining, and I often took Elisabeth to see acts like David Copperfield, or to tennis matches, or to five-star restaurants. She wasn’t impressed with any of that as much as she was with bubbles and homemade meatballs.

Now she’s a woman, and sometimes it’s hard for me to grasp that. Sometimes it just hits me that — oh my God — I helped make a grown-up human being! I look at Elisabeth, and she looks so beautiful and complete, and so full of young energy, that it aches.

“You’re not going to cry, are you,” she asks whenever she sees that my heart has become overfull and my eyes have gotten misty.

“Of course not,” I always reply. But then, of course, I do.

*

I met Connie Burke on Twitter. She’s a social media manager for GM, and she’s as passionate about her job as I am about writing. She’s also the proud mother of two grown people.  I approached GM because I knew from the blogosphere that they had done a lot to assist various networking events for women. Remarkably, when I explained my idea about embarking on a journey to gather stories about life in America today, Connie not only immediately understood its purpose, and how GM could play an important part in it, she understood me.  She also understood women like Veronica, who said, “Joining you on this trip is a chance for all of us to wake up, to dream, to find our America, and to know that yes, we are strong enough, smart enough, brave enough to change.”  Or Deb, who said, “I’m following you, step by step. As a 40-something with a sophomore in high school, I know well those feelings, and a hunger for a journey.” Or Laura: “You give me hope that my life as both middle-aged woman and mom can continue to grow and change and inspire.”

Having read my work, Connie also knew that I had been a loyal Ford driver for most of my adult life. “I want to change that,” she said bluntly. “I want you to experience our products, because I think once you do, you’re going to be very impressed.” From that statement, an idea was born – my journey will include test-driving as many makes and models of GMC/Chevy cars, trucks, and SUV’s as possible in the course of my year on the road. You all know how much I love to drive and how attached I get to my vehicles, so this will be very exciting for me. Will I become a GMC/Chevy convert? I don’t know. Connie made it clear that GM wants only my honest opinions about the vehicles I drive, and I wouldn’t be comfortable offering anything less, so this will an adventure within an adventure. A Storied Journey as well as A Test Drive Across the USA.

My adventure starts Monday with a GMC Yukon Denali Hybrid. I’ve never driven a hybrid before, and am curious how it will perform during the first leg of my journey, which includes a brief stop in Iowa, before heading to New Mexico, then Arizona. I have some wonderful people lined up to interview, and can hardly wait to begin!

My new website, Finding My America, is also launching on Monday. This site will automatically redirect to the new space, but I will have links available for those who’d like to read the archives here. I don’t think you’ll want to, though: the best stories are yet to come, and I don’t mean that in a clichéd, slogan-y kind of way. I plan on writing stories that matter – that have meaning to others – and that, when they’re put together as a whole, will really tell the story of life in America in a fresh way.

Bubbles and meatballs, my daughter once said. Today, for me, it’s not about a job, either. It’s much more personal. It’s about taking my passion for writing to the road, meeting people whose stories have not yet been told, and creating new ones of my own.  It’s about connecting, evolving, changing, and blazing new trails.

All starting Monday! My bags are packed, my apartment is nearly empty, and that mist in my eyes? It’s not from sentiment, but pure happiness.

Lately, I have been feeling that same kind of uncomfortable, seemingly ready-made divisiveness online, except this time it’s not about sports or the ability to decipher Beowulf, but about politics.

No one has ever accused me of being a Pollyanna, and I’m realistic enough to know that sometimes there’s not really a light at the end of every tunnel, but I do know that most of us have more in common than we have differences. Most of us, regardless of how we check our ballots, want healthy kids, good opportunities, decent jobs, and safe communities — we want more of the good things in life and less of the bad.

I was speaking with a new friend on the phone today, and the discussion briefly turned to Twitter and politics. I don’t know whether she’s a Republican, a Democrat, or something else, but it doesn’t matter. The thing that was bothering both of us equally was how divisive and hostile political speech has become.

The social media that draws us together to converse and share has become something of a battleground for left/right politics. Sometimes, these arguments are intriguing. Sometimes — okay, a lot of the time — they are not arguments at all, but angry rants that leave little room for real discussion.

Later in the day, I made the comment on Twitter that I wish we could have a one-day moratorium on angry, hostile speech. I know that probably means little or nothing to those who engage in such language as a habit, but it seemed to strike a chord among those who would like to see people come together as people first, political party members second.

There’s nothing weak or politically apathetic about wanting a nation less divided. There are probably more of us near the middle of the political spectrum than not, or at least desirous of finding some middle ground. Most of us are feeling the effects of a down economy and sharing the same worries and hopes. I doubt there are many people out there, regardless of party affiliation, who don’t want things to get better. We may have different views about how to go about improving our world — we may not even agree on what “better” entails — but at the heart of every political matter being discussed aren’t just ideas or beliefs, but people. Not just Democrats, not just Republicans, or Libertarians, or Green Party members, but all of us.

Along with several other Twitterers, I wondered if we could have one day where we don’t sit at separate tables and toss spitballs at each other. Maybe it’s a bit idealistic, but perhaps those of us who are interested can just pledge one day where we don’t engage in or respond to the vitriol, but instead concentrate on what we have in common, what we are grateful for, and what we appreciate.

The twitter hashtag is #1Day0Hate. The day to come together is October 6th. If you’d like to make this happen, please start using the tag and promoting it on Twitter and your own blogs. Corina Fiore at Down to Earth Mama even made this badge/avatar you can use on Twitter or on your site! Feel free to steal the picture from here, or grab the code from her post.

Thank you to everyone who expressed support for this idea and suggested I kick it off. I’m looking forward to a day of renewed and new friendships!

So I headed out the door, wearing my baggy USC sweats and I Love Lucy housecleaning scarf, and still singing along to Beth Hart’s Soul Shine.  I looked, I’m sure, like a slightly deranged but deliriously happy house frau.

Of course, I stopped for coffee first, because a nice, creamy espresso makes shopping the cold, humongous aisles at Home Depot a much more pleasant experience.  And there, sitting in a corner chair at Caribou Coffee, with one  hand on an unopened book and the other holding a paper cup of coffee, was a neighbor of mine from thirteen years ago. Not just any neighbor, but one I had been fairly close to while we were both in the trenches of single motherhood, school, and trying to carve out careers for ourselves.

Her short yellow hair was uncombed and even from a few feet away I could see the smudges on her eyeglasses. It seems we both left the house in a state of disarray, and I laughed to myself, wondering what happened to the days neither of us would even go to the grocery store without makeup on. Obviously, that was a phase we’d both outgrown.

She jumped up when she saw me, we squealed and hugged, and the first fifteen minutes of our conversation was filled with wide smiles and child-pride stories. Then it was time to talk about us — what we had done, where we had been, and where we were headed.  Suddenly, the laughter faded, replaced by an intensity that was all at once anxious, hopeful, and wanting.  It was as if a thousand “I Need” vines had sprung up around us, each of them thirsty and reaching for the sun — but they weren’t cloying at all — instead, they were just there, aching a little bit, and desiring relief, or something more.

We had both spent 20+ years raising children as single parents, and neither of us regretted that, but when our kids left home we both found ourselves feeling displaced and somewhat at a loss. My neighbor imagined that she’d have something like a second youth — the freedom to do what she wanted, when she wanted. Perhaps she’d even fall in love and marry again. I imagined that I’d travel the world and write stories along the way.

“For years, you’re just consumed with creating this life for your children,” she told me, “and that just doesn’t turn off when they’re gone. So you keep doing what you’ve always done. . .even if it’s empty. You have a routine. It’s dull, but it’s familiar. A few years pass, and you realize you’re not even awake anymore. You’re just existing. You’re numb.”

“Yes,”  I replied, “That’s exactly how it was for me, too.  It’s the waking up part that’s painful. You look around and wonder what opportunities there are at this age. You worry about time you’ve wasted and things you should have done differently. You know you need to do something different, but so many things seem out of reach or impractical — ”

“And I don’t know about you,” she said, “but I’ve gotten scared. Like maybe I’m not as strong as I once was, or as energetic. I worry that other people won’t value me as much at this age, and the opportunities won’t be there.”

She told me that, despite her fear, she was enrolling in a Masters program for teaching. I told her about my upcoming cross-country journey. We then laughed at ourselves and pumped each other full of warm encouragement.  Two forty-something, empty-nest women who were waking up to changed lives and new possibilities. Both of us simultaneously understanding that we needed so much more than memories of motherhood and faded, underpaid careers to get us to the next level of our lives. Both of us a little afraid, but still willing to take risks and dream big.

We hugged each other goodbye like two sister-soldiers heading off to different battles. I ordered another latte and left to finish my errands.  I wasn’t even out of the parking lot when my brakes failed. As in, they were almost completely gone. One week after a full inspection, two new tires, a flush & fill, and an oil change. Six months after new brake pads. I very carefully turned around and drove the mile home. Tomorrow, the tow truck will come and I’m pretty sure the mechanic will tell me I need a new master cylinder.  It don’t come easy. . .you know it don’t come easy.

I’m still holding out hope that an automobile company, like  GMC/Chevy, will sponsor my trip. Yes, I have been a Ford fan for thirty years, but I can change. I can envision replacing the old Bronco, Hank, with a sturdy Yukon Hybrid or a Sierra I’d name Ed. Ed would be a much better travel companion — certainly a much more handsome one –  but if it ends up being Hank and me, that will be okay, too. My wing-and-prayer trip will lose a few feathers, but it’s still on by October 12 even if (God forbid) I have to give up my coffee habit and live on crackers for awhile. Dream big, yes, but prepare to live simply — one of my professors told me that when she learned I wanted to be a writer, and over the years I’ve come to understand exactly what she meant.  There are rarely any overnight or immediate successes, but you have to keep pushing, hoping, and challenging yourself even if the only reward for all your efforts is the work itself.

I will be putting together a short book of stories as a fundraiser very soon. Everyone who has already donated to this trip will receive one, regardless of the amount donated. I truly appreciate the support and am excited (and relieved!)  that so many people have offered accommodations and other assistance along the way. This trip would not be possible without the internet, and the interest shown here and on Twitter and Facebook.

Okay, it’s back to packing, cleaning, singing, and counting down the days. You gotta pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues, and you know it don’t come easy. . . But it will come, I know it will, because I’m just that determined that nothing will stop me.

Comments are open.

People have asked me if I’m nervous about my upcoming journey, and of course I am, but no more so than I’d be about staying here wondering about when, how, or if I was ever going to be able to live out my dream of traveling the country to meet people and write stories. I was half-hoping (okay, a little more than half) that the Ford Motor Company would like my idea enough to sponsor me with a more reliable vehicle than my ‘86 Bronco, but I got the no yesterday. I was a little bummed since I’m a huge Ford fan but there is an upside. Having a sponsor usually means having to tread a little more carefully, keeping in mind that their company is also part of your endeavor, and that their customers may not always appreciate what you’re doing. While I don’t plan on Glenn Beck-ing any of my subjects, it’s freeing to be able to write anything I want without considering the effect it might have on a sponsor.

Besides, Hank’s feelings might be hurt if I left him behind. Yes, I have that kind of attachment to my vehicles — the kind that gives them names and personalities. Hank is a rough and tumble kind of guy, a little rusty, but very loyal. He never fails to start, and though he may not be as quick or handsome as he once was, his engine still purrs and his heater still works.

I have a lot of work to do before Hank and I can hit the road. There’s an apartment to disassemble, packing to be done, loads of stuff to give to the Vets and the Lupus Foundation, and oh yes. . .the surprise packages I’m giving away here. If you haven’t entered my blog-naming contest, please do. The contest ends this Sunday.

I sincerely thank everyone for their support, and cannot wait to get started on my new adventure!

Update 9/20 – Comments now closed. Winners being chosen and will be notified tonight!

I’ve decided that it’s time to take a risk, fulfill a dream, and embark on a year-long, cross-country writing trip. There’s no one answer why, but many. And while I don’t believe in fate, I do believe convergence, and in forks in the road.

If you’re a parent, especially one who’s single or divorced, you probably understand why I’ve always chosen the safest road. When my daughter was placed in my arms for the first time, and then my son, I didn’t think “I’ve got to write a novel” — I thought, “I’ve got to give them the best life possible.” Over the next two decades, this meant working at whatever jobs paid the most, instead of the ones I may have liked the most. Sometimes it meant working two jobs so that I could live in a better neighborhood with better schools. Being a single parent gave rise to many precarious situations –- there were times I didn’t know how I was going to make it –- but I never questioned why I absolutely had to, no matter what the challenges were.

I harbored the thought that when my children were grown, I’d rebirth myself into a second life where I’d fulfill all my deferred dreams. The problem for me was that I’d grown so used to living inside the boundaries of parenthood that even when my kids became adults, I maintained the habits of someone who was still scrambling to make ends meet, and putting my writing off to the side as something to do in my spare time. It didn’t help matters that my resume looked like a social experiment, and that over the years I rarely submitted any of my work for publication.

In 2008, so many things converged in my life that it felt rather like an avalanche. My hours at work were drastically reduced, which threw my finances into turmoil. I was stalked by a nut who worked for the postal office, and spent months looking over my shoulder. My daughter got married. In November, I became ill, and then I lost my job. Illness continued into 2009, and I had no health insurance. Life as I knew it, as I had so diligently fretted about it and maintained it over the years, came to a screeching halt that ultimately ended up in front of a fork in the road. I knew that I could do what I’ve always done in uncertain times — hardscrabble my way back into a safe but ordinary existence –- but there was a gnawing in my gut that wouldn’t go away; that felt all at once like hunger and repulsion, as if I’d sat down to the same bowl of thin, unsavory soup one too many times.

I knew that I had profoundly changed. I wasn’t the same person who once created ad campaigns for Caesars Tahoe, or who managed vacation properties up North, or who delivered mail as a side-job so she could write a book. I was no longer the person ruled by a pay stub and fearful of doing anything that might destabilize the foundation. As odd as it sounds, the fears I experienced during this time of turmoil seemed to have inoculated me against fears of taking a risk on my future.

Sometimes ideas arise in a funny, sideways fashion, and that was certainly the case here, when I let my imagination consider what I would do if I had actually won a sweepstakes I had entered, where the grand prize was a Ford Mustang and some cash. The answer came to me immediately –- I would take off in my car, and go in search of interesting people and stories. I would spend a year of my life on the road, in search of everything good, inspiring, truthful, redemptive, and beautiful about life in America. I would get back in touch with the part of me that loves to ask questions and explore the various answers, as well as the spiritual part of me that is rejuvenated whenever I am in the mountains or sitting out under the stars.

Of course I didn’t win the sweepstakes, but I did learn that my dreams were still very much alive, and that my desire to write something bigger and more encompassing than this blog was thriving. Once I knew that –- once I understood why I wanted to travel across the country –- I knew that the how could be either an obstacle or an opportunity. I could tell myself that I wasn’t in a position to fulfill my dreams – that they should be deferred again – or I could take a risk on my own talent and resourcefulness and trust that I would find support along the way.

Obviously, I decided that this was a dream that wasn’t going to be deferred. I’ve already mapped out the first part of my journey, which will include Iowa, New Mexico, Arizona, and California. Presently in the queue for interviews are nurses, Jonestown survivors, the children of migrant workers, and an aspiring film maker. There will be many, many more. I’m so excited I can barely wait to begin!

There will be a new blog to cover my year on the road, during which I’ll be seeking out people from all walks of life, from farmers and artists to inventors and entrepreneurs. I started a site called One Writer, No Address to kickstart my journey, which will begin in October, but the name doesn’t quite convey the spirit of my road trip, so I thought I’d have a contest.

There will be two winners. One will be chosen at random from all the entries received, and the other will be the submission I like the most. The winner of the random entry will receive a fun surprise package from me, filled with goodies worth at least $20. The winner of the best submission will receive a $20 gift certificate from Amazon.com as well as a surprise package. The contest will end at 12 noon on Sunday, September 20, and the winners will be announced here and through email.

I look forward to reading all the entries, but most of all I look forward to meeting some of you during my year of travel!

Update 9/21 – Congratulations to Grand Prize winner Barbara for her entry “Finding My America” and to Kim Nelson, winner of the randomly chosen entry. Thank you to everyone who entered and shared their ideas!

The end of the film never baffled me. It seemed clear that Bobby’s escape down the side of a mountain failed, and that in order to ease the pain of his brother’s death, Mike invented an alternate reality that had Bobby sending him postcards from all over the world. As a grown man, Mike tells his children the story and says:

“Do you guys understand what I meant about history being in the mind of the teller?”
“I think so.” “Yeah.”
“Good. Good, because that’s the way I remember it.”

I wasn’t aware until recently that there was a controversy about the movie’s end.  Some people, it seems, are adamant that the little red wagon sailed off into the sky and that Bobby spent the rest of his life happy and traveling. This fantastical possibility was offered by the film’s somewhat cryptic ending and many fans decided that, despite the grim reality of the rest of the story, a fantasy ending was somehow fitting. The director, Richard Donner, seemed to want that, too, but he couldn’t sink the weight of writer David Evans’s final few lines.

Even as a writer and a creative person, it has always surprised me that some people are so willing to suspend reality in favor of even the most obvious fantasies — like karma and its accompanying bromides like “what comes around goes around” or “there are no accidents”.  Bad things happen to good people every day. Some ignorant or bad people are greatly rewarded. Sixteen year old girls blow lottery fortunes on fake boobs and cocaine,  while people who’ve worked hard for 30 or 40 years lose their jobs and homes. Talent and persistence don’t always win out — sometimes luck, nepotism, or family connections matter more.

And the chances are that if you see a baby being thrown against a wall, or a woman getting raped, or a gay man being beaten by a bunch of thugs, you’re not going to think it’s karma, or the mythical fates at work – you’re not going to think “there are no accidents” – instead you’re going to think that such events are wretched, horrible, often preventable, and totally unacceptable.

I believe that people buy into the karma myth because it comes with blinders attached. If people can delude themselves into believing that there’s some higher reason for unacceptable acts or circumstances, and that the world runs as it is supposed to, then they’re essentially letting themselves off the hook from having to consider the realities of the world they live in and, consequently, their place and role in those realities. If they believe that “there are no accidents”, then they don’t have to put forth much effort in righting the wrongs, or even acknowledging them, because wrongs simply don’t exist — and if they do, well, karma — not effort — will take care of them.

Many otherwise smart and liberal-minded people I know have fallen under the spell of karmical thinking. They are so enamored with idealized concepts of peace, fairness, inclusiveness, and supporting the underdog that they have become intellectually lazy.  They may be willing to lend their names to the progressive cause du jour of the day — Palestine, free elections in Iran, health care reform — but their understanding of the issues may be extremely narrow, often on purpose and adamantly so, because they refuse to see anything beyond their magical blinders.

While some liberals may be bent on mystical, karmic thinking, even more pervasive, particularly when it comes to politics and religion, is the dogmatic adherence being exhibited by many conservatives.  Here, people have ceased to think critically, as independent beings, and have instead subscribed to a rigid, and often fantastical, set of beliefs as proffered by their religion’s or party’s most prominent spokespeople.

Paradise in exchange for murder and suicide; heavenly forgiveness for even the most brutal and intentional of acts; forced marriages of young girls to older men; oppression and brutality heaped upon women, children, minorities, and the underclass — there are those, in America and abroad, who insist that God is a co-perpetrator of these and other savage and systematic abuses of humanity, and that man is only carrying out God’s will when he bombs an abortion clinic, forces a thirteen year old Texas girl into a polygamous marriage, or stones a Sudanese rape victim to death.

The horrors of oppressive religion become entwined with culture. In Afghanistan, a ten year old girl beaten with wires by her two older brothers for visiting a skateboard park says, “I’m not upset with my brothers for beating me, they have the right.” In Canada as well as the U.S., women and teenage girls defend a lifestyle in which it is common for 14 and 15 year old girls, most of whom have never experienced life outside of their isolated communities, to marry and bear children.

And while American conservatives have leaned on the gospel of Christianity a great deal, almost none of their social responses are merciful, e.g. Christian, in nature. They buck against the idea of society helping the poor or uninsured. They seek the harshest of punishments against even non-violent offenders. They bring guns to town hall meetings. They favor the deregulation of corporations and a mitigation of corporate responsibilities. They fight against increases in the minimum wage. They either don’t believe in global warming, or don’t think measures to curb it are fair to industry. They think the Constitution and Bill of Rights should bend to their whim — making things like The Patriot Act morally acceptable, but a secular, inclusive government evil.

Under the umbrella of Christianity, the Republicans have stood against equality for women. They have sought to undo affirmative action. They do not believe gay people should have equal rights to the benefits of marriage. They believe that hate crime legislation imposes on their religious freedom.  They continue to fight against The United Nations Bill of Rights for Children, which seeks to make children less the chattel of their parents and give them protections as autonomous but dependent beings. 193 countries have signed the bill over the past decade. America and Somalia are two who have not.

In the fantastical world of fundamentalist religiopolitics, it is acceptable for Glenn Beck to call Obama a racist, but not acceptable to question the racial motives behind the continuous, frivolous, and often frighteningly ignorant attacks on President Obama. It was acceptable when a Republican President put the country into trillions of dollars of debt, lied to the American people, advocated torture, kept prisoners without due process, and allowed companies like Halliburton and Blackwater to fill their coffers with tax money — but it is unacceptable that Obama works towards health care reform, and speaks to school children about working hard and not giving up. It was unpatriotic to criticize war and torture under Bush, but it’s perfectly patriotic to bring a gun to a protest against health care.

Ever since Obama became a contender, I have watched the dogmatic branch of the right-wing slip into a state of near hysteria. While there was just something sad and pathetic about watching religious Republican mouthpieces like Jerry Falwell debate the sexuality of Tinky Winky or blaming gays, feminists and pagans for the attack of 9/11, what’s happening now is steeped in a vicious and hateful brew that makes yesterday’s spewed ignorance seem almost innocuous.  From conspiracy theories about the President’s birth certificate, to ongoing accusations that Obama is a Muslim, socialist, Marxist, thug — even Satan incarnate — these attacks step way outside the realm of political disagreement or religious differences, and seek to illigitimize and demonize a President who hasn’t even been in office for a full year; who hasn’t yet significantly changed the political or social landscape of America; and who, coincidentally, happens to be America’s most powerful and popular minority figure.

Of course, the possibility that racism is behind much of the expressed hatred is met with staunch denial.  Then again, as long as they don’t mention blackness, but instead insist that Obama is an A-rab and play on the fears of their most ignorant followers, then that’s not racist but somehow proper and worthy of consideration.

If a parallel between the Radio Flyer movie and today’s political climate were to be drawn, the mystical thinkers in the liberal party would be the blinders-on idealists who really believe that their little red wagon can effortlessly defy the laws of physics and reality, and fly happily into the sunset to live happily-ever-after in some future made of dreams and wishes.  They actually do little to accomplish their imagined flight because that would involve having to fight and possibly alienate the people that don’t want them to take off in the first place. Instead, the mystical thinkers seek to build consensus even among the most inhospitable people, compromising themselves right into a steady holding pattern where little gets done but hey — the intentions were good and in the end isn’t that what’s most important?

Conservatives, on the other hand, may be helping the Republican party commit suicide with their outlandish escapades & maniacal speech but they’re playing it off as if they, too, were taking flight — into a future that glorifies and seeks to replicate the past — when uppity black and poor people, women, and children knew their places; labor laws and unions didn’t interfere with business; war was glorified; prayer was considered more fruitful than knowledge; and non-white, non-Christians were viewed as less than equal or heretical.

In between the two extremes, there are those who seek neither fanciful flight nor destruction of progress. We wonder why it’s not possible to effect a rescue before the wagon goes careening down the mountainside in the first place.

The ending that wasn’t offered by the movie Radio Flyer also seems absent in politics.  The question is, between the inaction of the karmic thinkers and the screaming of the backward dogmatists, will the country be able to save itself  from the kind of cryptic politics that leaves the future precariously hanging from the side of a cliff?

This article also appears on The Huffington Post if you’d like to comment.

9/11, correction to director’s name.