No place like home

“I ‘m staring out my window at a world I love more than any other — a world far from what you know. Here everything comes from my blood and sweat, and I am content not to know anything of tomorrow, except the bittersweet knowledge that she exists somewhere. I don ‘t need anything out here; in the fields, on the beaches, on the roads, I am a self-contained fire, and I can burn out here all night, for all of humanity to see, or for no eyes but that of the night sky. If you dare to criticize me for my niche within my universe, I ask you, what is yours? I am happy here. I am content to be an eye of the outside, far from your inside and experiencing life on the path of free men and enlightened minds. Do I have a plan? Maybe, maybe not. Do you have a plan? I bet you do. Compare our differences and report to me who is foolish; yourself living under a box, or myself living under the stars.” —Reflections July 2005

I will never fully understand the ignorance that people possess. We, as humans, can accomplish so much, yet regress twofold on whatever progress we amount. As my journey continued through our vast country full of ideas and demographics, blue states and red states, I find sad similarities and pleasant correlations between what I‘ve seen of my country.

First off, I find that the DIY (Do It Yourself) community is stronger then I ever could explain to those who aren‘t firsthand observers and followers of its ethos, but in terms that the normal man can understand — we ‘re a family stronger than any blood relation. People are there for you without any prerequisites or assumptions, and the friendships they exhibit toward one another displays the higher characteristic of our humanity. Of course, it is easy to embellish, in either a positive or negative light, the actions of others to whom you feel either a loyal regard or negative sentiment, but with as much of an unbiased mind as one can possess, I can say with confidence that this community holds within her the most sincere and hospitable individuals humanity can produce.

In contrast, I have encountered some of the world ‘s most detached populace, “ignorant” people I always feared existed but hoped could not. Police with a grudge against foreigners, jocks with the intellectual fortitude of a squash, stereotyping hate-mongrels, nationalist morons, and elitists both on foreign and domestic soil. To avoid sounding ignorant myself, I knew these people existed here in my hometown of Irving, but hoped that the larger picture of humanity would diffuse away the closemindedness of the few unworthy of our noble species. I see now more then ever how foolish people are when left to their own messy minds. It is the true polar theory, that where there is one righteous intelligent man, there is an equally conniving fool living as his neighbor. That being said, let me again focus on the road — my beast and my burden, of my own infliction and selfish gratification.

In all frankness, the Midwest was a blur. Mostly because we drove nonstop from Vancouver, British Columbia, to Cheyenne, Wyo., totaling over 36 hours of straight road warriorness. We took the long way by erroneous inconvenience, and paid the price in miles and radiator stress. Once we returned to the reality of existence beyond the realm of truck stops and the highway patrol, we realized how far we had gone and how far we had to go. As I drove through Wyoming and Colorado and our van continuously overheated due to the constant elevation changes and Speed Racer driving, I couldn‘t help but think we ‘d never make it to the East Coast, let alone home.

“Home? What is that?” I remember thinking to myself. If home is a job, school, obligations and false priorities, maybe I ‘d rather break down out here and live in a national park. Don ‘t think I couldn‘t do it either; crazier things have been done.

Seeing old friends again and new friends for the first time, it almost felt like a family reunion. As our machine steamed through state after state, destroying basements, houses, skateshops and dismal clubs we were content only to make it from morning to night and back again. I know we are so exhausted and spread so thin, but would we have it any other way? I think you know the answer.

The people in Canada are not only the nicest people you will ever meet, but they are more open and sincere than most of their American counterparts. Our stays in Toronto, Ottowa, Quebec City, and Sherbrooke showed us a side of our unjustly stereotyped northern cohorts. First of all, the Canadian reaction to our message of “Skate Destruction” was received with unbridled enthusiasm. We were greeted by skateboard militias thirsty for concrete blood and burrito fuel cells —what more could we ask for? The French Canadians were less warm then most of their Canadian brothers, but that could a be false perception on my part because I can ‘t speak French. However, I did feel a larger degree of tension once we reached Quebec City than I did to its west. Then there was Sherbrooke.

Sherbrooke is a few hours east of Quebec City, deep in the heart of Quebec and the French Canadian stronghold. Now, I loved the Sherbrooke community, but I have some negative sentiment towards members of its small public. First off, laughing at us because we were from Texas was a little irritating. Then having the local police arrest two members of our traveling party for false accusations was a surprise, and made me feel mistreated. After paying a fine, we walked away from their squad cars, and I remember hearing them laugh at us in French, counting our money and reveling in their own superiority. I kept walking, knowing the cycle of corruption was just perpetuated at my expense. Furthering my own conceptions -- we have to help each other because everyone else is content to bury us alive.

The show we played that night in Sherbrooke with our friends in Radical Attack was one of the most supportive shows we had played in the last two weeks. I felt a reformulated hope that night, despite the negativity of the day. Just as I asked not to be judged by others for my demographic, or for my country ‘s errors, or for any other preconception regarding my character without just cause, I cannot subject others to the stereotyping because of the foolishness of those around them.

So to that I say, I love Canada, and I love the U.S., but I don ‘t like jerks — whether they ‘re in a T-shirt, business suit, letter-jacket or a police uniform.

— Second of a three-part series