This Is Not America

This Is Not America – David Bowie

“Of course, when our Jimmy lost his job, too… Well, let’s just say that it was pretty darn tough on all of us. What with me having the cancer and all after my first divorce, and our Janice throwing up her dinner all the time. We did ourselves a lot of praying, I’ll tell you that, dear. A lot of praying. What’s that smell?” I am standing on the side of a dust-bowl dirt road some three miles outside Wyola, Montana (a speck of a town, some 50 miles from anywhere), and the all-American sportswear lady talking from behind her 9/11 remembrance T-shirt – the words We Will Never Forget and a bald eagle hover over a drawing of the American flag and two smoking towers – is Nancy Olson. Nancy and her third husband William (“Please call me Bill”) have come to our rescue.

We are in a pretty bad state. My friend Silke, cameraman André and I have been on a road trip through the backlands of America in the biggest rental car I’ve ever seen. I’m pretty sure the car could qualify as an apartment in most countries – all that is missing are some curtains and a coffee maker. This morning we decided to take a little detour into Montana. You know, take the scenic route. We parked right off the dust road at an idyllic stream to have our picnic lunch, and jumped out of the car. The second we slammed the doors I knew, the way you know in that slow motion split second that your ungainly stumble – arms flailing, weight shifting – will result in a fall. The way you know that volatile cotton candy sensation in your head is a sneeze in the making. And, like a sneeze, there was no stopping it. Slam. Slam. Slam. Click. We locked ourselves out of the car. The click made our heads snap back, all eyes on the dashboard. And there they were, the keys of our rental, peacefully dangling off the air conditioned ignition. Inside a car that had just locked itself. Pretty much like an apartment.

So we are in a pretty bad state. Only André has his phone on him – but reception stutters in and out of existence, with a best of one single bar if he stands in the middle of the road, on his toes, holding the phone high above his head. No luck trying to call the rental company, 50 miles away; there is not a house or farm in sight. All the windows of the car are firmly closed. We are stuck. And getting hungry.

There is no real traffic on the road – after all, we were going for scenic – but every once in a while an encrusted truck or well worn car speeds by, the dust-tinted windows obscuring equally spent drivers. We wave, call out, jump up and down for them to stop. The quiet faces crawl out, like hermit crabs from under caps and moustaches and logger shirts, in muted curiosity; the faces seem to turn in our direction involuntarily, like sunflowers to the sun, as they drive by without slowing down. We are so stuck.

But then Nancy and Bill pull up. A bowl of ginger dust leaps and snaps at their flatbed truck as it comes to a halt. A little American flag flutters off the antenna; professional fishing gear hangs from the gun rack in the back. They take immediate pity. Bill tips his NRA cap, scratches his head and says with considerable authority: “Let’s see if we can open this sucker up, pardon my French.” Nancy starts rooting through a big cooler filled with cold cut sandwiches, potato chips and drinks. “You poor things!” she says. “To be stuck out here in the wilderness, nobody around but ‘damn Indians. I’m darn glad me and Bill happened to pass by. We grew up ‘round here. Come here to go fishin’ every Saturday. My second husband used to come out hunting, here, too. Poor bastard. Sandwich, dear?” As Silke and the boys start gathering tools and plotting a strategy to open the car doors, Nancy and I go for a stroll.

I am always surprised, and secretly mollified, to that strangest of intimacies Americans seem so comfortable with – where they share personal details of their lives with random strangers, unannounced and apropos of nothing. Maybe I’m the perfect stranger for that kind of thing; or maybe Nancy was born to share. Either way, she’s overflowing with stories and I am all ears.
“Of course my first husband Hank prayed all the time. And I do mean all the time. Except when he was rollin’ in the hay with some floozy or other. I guess he’d call that Divine Intervention! He wasn’t a bad man, you know. Ol’ Hank. He just couldn’t keep his hands to himself is all. He was a red-blooded all American boy I guess! Just like my second husband. He’s dead now, of course. What is that smell?”

Something does smell funny. Funny, but not necessarily in a good way; one scenario that vaguely comes to mind is a group of people farting in an effort to put out a huge pile of burning rubber. But that doesn’t even begin to cover the dark audacity of this scent. We’ve sauntered off the main road, and as we take a corner the smell stabs us like a knitting needle in the brain. I look up to see a dead skunk by the side of what looks to be a hidden driveway. “I knew it!” Nancy says triumphantly. “Nuthin’ quite like the smell of skunk – dead or alive. Why am I not surprised nobody’s cleaned this thing up…” It takes me a second to realize this is not a real question. It is one of those questions where the person posing it assumes the answer to be already known and you can either shake your head and shrug in disagreement or cock your head and nod a conspirator’s nod in consent. I can tell by the inflection: Nancy’s voice doesn’t go up at the end to assert the question mark; instead, it goes down halfway to suggest she knows all too well why there is nobody cleaning up the road kill. Also, Nancy is rolling her eyes. I am not sure what she is talking about, so I give her a non-committal half-shrug and my puzzled face. Nancy nudges her head in a direction further up the driveway, to the farm house at the end. “They never clean up after themselves. Dirty and lazy, is what they are.”



I follow nancy's nudge to a typical 70’s horror movie mansion – one where based-on-true-story-teens are held and tortured to the death by a family of chainsaw wielding inbreds. A family like that would likely not clean up any road kill: they probably wouldn’t be bothered by an extra funky smell or two. Or, I think, maybe this is where Ol’ Hank and his latest affair have started a new life together. Hank probably doesn’t have time to pick up anything in or around the house; he’d be too busy rolling around and praying all the time. Nancy’s bitter tone indicates the latter scenario, so I wait for her to launch into another sympathetic account of the heartbreaking human condition.
“And they’re always complaining, too; that the government doesn’t give them enough money, or enough jobs. Well they stole my Jimmy’s job, I can tell you that!” Who is she talking about? I’d like to have a word with the people who stole poor Jimmy’s job! What with his gambling problem, he needed his steady pay more than anyone. So I say, “Do you know the people who live there?”

– “Well, they’re Indians, dear.” Nancy makes a face like she smells something bad. It could be the dead skunk. “Government probably gave them that house for free. They get everything they want for free ‘round here. Did I tell you how my son Jimmy lost his home after they took his job?”
– “Maybe if there’s anyone home we can use their phone to call our car rental company,” I feebly steer the conversation in a less awkward direction. I try not to look at Nancy. Instead I take a picture of the dead skunk.
– “Hah! Over my dead body! I’m not going anywhere near that place!” Nancy now looks like she hears a distant chainsaw roar. “They only care about their own anyway. They’d never let us use the phone. You know, if they even have one. I sure as heck don’t know how to build for smoke signals. Hah!”

Nancy sees the expression of awkward surprise on my face turn into one of puzzled concern. She continues, “Well, none of them stopped to help you out today, now did they? I’m sure they all drove right by you. They don’t care about nuthin’ but their own kind. Now let’s get the heck away from that skunk! What are you taking a picture for? It’s a dead animal! Silly goose. Let’s see how Bill is doing on your car.”



What just happened? Did this darling old lady really morph into the Eva Braun of Indian-haters just now? It can’t be, I think. She makes such great sandwiches! Listen carefully, and then think carefully, my dad would say. My dad is a philosopher at heart – for every truth there is an opposite just-as-truth. Behind every ideology lies a personal history. Who are we to decide what other people should believe? As a consequence, my dad’s ideas – or at least, what I think he must have meant – have made me the kind of person who is inclined to refrain from all judgment. Maybe that explains why Nancy is so eager to share. I don’t know – I just know that I didn’t ask for this digression.

Don't jump to any conclusions! I think. She’s just an old lady with a family story to share, and Nancy’s story, is just so, I mean, it’s just way too human. How can someone so human be inhuman? I tell myself, Nancy is not some moral version of Schrödinger's cat. I think, I’m really not much for cats. More of dog person? Maybe. Then I remember how Adolf Hitler was widely known for his love of dogs. He adored his German Shepherd, Blondie – not to be confused with the hot singer in that 80’s band. Although I’m pretty sure Adolf would have liked her, too.
I think, I bet Adolf was a nice enough guy as long as you didn’t get him started about world domination and final solutions. I bet, before Adolf became Hitler, his personal ad in the local Zeitung would have read something like, “Artistically inspired, passionate boy seeks adventurous girl to take on the world. I’m into pina coladas and paintings. You are a cute twenty-something visionary, must love pets and Our Beloved Nation.”
On the first date with a girl he’d chat about art and how, when he was little, he always told his parents he’d be a famous painter one day; he’d maybe mention his love for travel and his mild case of claustrophobia (“You know, I just need more space to live”). Just like any normal guy.
Back in the day, on that first date, Adolf’s mustache must have trembled with the social restraints of his German Bratwurst upbringing. Ah, Germany, that society stuffed to the brim with ground-up emotions, neatly and hopelessly bottled up inside that tight German skin that dictates formality and procedure at all times. Where all that pent up passion is dying to burst out of its skin like hot lava; where restrained emotions are ready to pop - like Bratwursts, to rupture only when the pressure inside the frying pan has become unbearable.

I’m pretty sure Hitler would need at least three dates for any emotional spillage to even be considered. I bet the girls he dated didn’t get the feeling that something was off until that third date. Things would slowly take a more personal turn. (“Remember when I said I needed space to live? Well, I’ve been working on this brilliant solution…”)

Nancy, I evaluate, is not aiming for world domination, or even for the violent extermination of everything that is not her definition of “American”. I mean, for one, she’s just too old for that shit. And too busy helping out random strangers by the side of the road. Neither is she waiting for the third date to get personal. Nancy’s no German Herr. Nancy is born and raised in Sloppy Joe country – picture the same random heap of ground emotions that Germans squeeze into a Wurst, only loosely spread out on a bun, held together only by grand amounts of tomato paste. And like a Sloppy Joe, Nancy’s life story has been trickling right into my lap from the moment she so generously offered me that first bite, two hours ago when we met. Her family history is one of the most tragic and strangely upbeat I’ve heard in a while. I feel for her and her poor, wretched family. She made me laugh a couple times. She saw a stranger in need and stopped to help. I kind of like her.

My point is, I’m dealing with that most slippery of all foes, a nice racist. As we start working our way back to the others, my brain hurts like someone is squeezing the last bit of toothpaste out of it. What do I do?

My first response is Smile And Act Like Nothing Happened. Maybe I’m just misinterpreting all this, her being American and me being Dutch and what do I know about what people mean when they say anything anyway? If Germans are Bratwursts, and Americans are Sloppy Joes, the Dutch are much like a cheese sandwich for lack of imaginative meat product: a yellow hole-ridden dairy product, forever wedged between bigger and more powerful slices of German or French bread that could easily run over our country in five days the second they decide they no longer like the taste between the holes. All that my cultural heritage really ever taught me is how to play nice and not be immediately tossed out with the lettuce and tomato – like, say, Poland.



By the time we get back to the car, Bill has rolled up his sleeves and is working himself into a sweat. He and Andre are trying to jam a coat hanger down the tiny crack between the door and the car, to see if they can reach the lock from the inside. Without any luck. Bill cusses under his breath and jumps off the car. As he lands, his one leg barely touches the ground; it looks like Bill is trying to stay off it. Is he limping? Maybe he is one of those War Veterans who lost a leg while trying to die for their country.
Bill scratches his head and says, “We’re gonna need us some heftier tools”, and starts rummaging through the flatbed for more suitable utensils. There are, of course, none. I realize I am half expecting him to reach down to his knee, pull off his prosthetic leg – carved, no doubt, from a piece of good old Vietnamese oak – and bust it through our rental’s window. Nothing beats a prosthetic leg to get you out of a sticky situation! Problem solved. He’d then tip his NRA cap, Nancy would pack her cooler, they’d carelessly throw the leg in the back of the flatbed along with the fishing equipment. Off they’d go, in a tornado of dust, to someone else’s rescue.
But Bill doesn’t reach for his knee. Instead he kneels down to tie his shoelaces.
– “Walkin’ ‘round here like they own the place”, Nancy picks up our conversation where she is sure we left it. “Trying to keep the rest of us from getting hunting permits. Hoggin’ the guns. And none of them work. All they do is drink and gamble all day long. Government hands them everything on a silver platter. Always have.”



Oh my god, I think, this is it. I’m not mistaken; Nancy’s a total racist. What do I do now? She’s been so kind and motherly – she really does remind me a bit of my mom, with her matter-of-fact way of helping us. Not to mention the fact that she brought enough food to feed an entire family for two weeks, even when this morning when she woke up it was just going to be her and Bill on a one day trip. I remember how my mom used to pack dozens of frozen pork chops and bags filled with potatoes for our summer vacations to Italy. “You never know when you’re gonna need it!” she used to say, oblivious to the pathological smell of raw slabs of meat thawing out in the trunk halfway across Germany, or the fact that she was raising three daughters who were convinced (well into their teens) that pork was a widely unknown phenomenon outside The Netherlands. I can’t imagine my mom would hand me a sandwich, blow my nose and say, “Oh, by the way, I think whites should reign supreme. Now remember to chew, before you choke! Always so impatient.”

How strange, I think, that a lady who is so visibly proud of being American – the shirt! Her husband’s NRA cap! The way she uses her right to freedom of speech! – would so readily forget what makes an American. What ever happened to the Self-evident Truths that all men are created equal, endowed with certain unalienable rights like life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness? Maybe Nancy is one of those people who think there is only so much happiness to go around – if anyone else pursues any, it means you have to give some up.

I wish I knew what it feels like to be an American like Nancy. I don’t. And it appears I sure as hell don’t know how to make a decent stand. I remember one time, in Italy, my mom and I were strolling along the shores of Lake Garda when we came across two little boys catching fish from the lake. The boys were 7 or 8 years old, like me, only they were local Italian kids. They had laid down the tiny fish they’d caught on one of the numerous large flat rocks on the lake shore. As my mom and I got closer to the rocks, we saw the fish were still alive, gasping for air as they were flopping about in a fruitless effort to get back in the water – scraping their scales and fins and leaving a bloody, glistening mess on the rock. They were doing whatever fish do when on land; the opposite of drowning.
The boys were looking on in respectful fascination for this one-acter of life and death, their hands on their backs. My mom said, “I can’t bear this”, and without looking at me she pushed the boys aside, picked up the fish by their mangled tails and slapped the tiny bodies, hard, on the rock, until they stopped moving. The boys took one look at my mom’s face and ran. She stood with her back at me for the longest time, staring at the lifeless little fish on the rock. I remember standing there, looking at her motionless back. After an eternity she picked up the remains and buried them in the sand. She got up, and only then did she look back at me, her eyes red. She didn’t say anything; she just took my hand and we walked back to our vacation home.

Damn it, I think, is this really all I took away from what my parents taught me about doing the right thing? And how could it help me now? Between my mom’s lethal hands-on compassion and my dad’s ultimately indecisive sense of reason, there has to be a better way to deal with this specific situation. I mean, after all, I’m trying to make a stand for live and let live here – for making nice on a global scale. There must be a way to do that without bloodshed.

I’m about to ask Nancy when exactly the Olson family tree first arrived in the States, when a voice comes out of nowhere. I am so caught up in my feeble stand for niceties that I don’t notice the guy strolling towards us from up the street until he’s come to a halt right next to me. “Hiya”, he says, startling the shit out of everybody. “You stuck?”



– “Uhh, yeah, we locked ourselves out of our car,” I say. Nancy has frozen mid-monologue. She steps back and is now looking apprehensively at the guy’s long black braided hair.
– “Yeah, I figured you might be in trouble,” he says, and spits on the dust that settles at his feet like a well trained dog. The fleck is foamy, dark and thick, and it takes the earth a lifetime to absorb it. “We don’t get many strangers here – not on purpose, anyway. I thought I saw you just now from my window. Figured I’d come over to see if you need any help.” At this point Nancy looks like she is vigorously wishing she had a prosthetic leg on her. But the guy isn’t paying attention to her. He’s looking at me. “I own the farm right off the main road. We breed horses. This is my land here, pretty much as far as you can see. Figured I’d come ask if maybe you might want to come in, use my phone. Have a cold drink. It’s hot out today.”

– “Your house looks like the one from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre,” I wheeze. “I mean, it’s not like we… I mean, it’s just…” I hear flies buzzing. Why do I always do this to myself? “We were just looking to have some lunch and then we pulled up at the little stream over there and then all of a sudden we’re in the middle of nowhere with no keys. You know?” I sigh. “I watch too many movies.”
The guy shakes his head in friendly puzzlement. “Yeah, isn’t it great out here? You can actually swim in that stream, it’s so clear. I always go swimming here in the summer. Lots of trout in there. You fish?” He nods at the fishing gear in the flatbed. “Plenty of good hunting, too. Well, used to, anyway. Bear, bison, coyote. We used to keep them in check; they kept the deer and the elk in check. But everybody has a permit nowadays. People ‘round here forget that the wild animals need a season to breed too. Keep shooting them, none be left. I guess some people just don’t think about these things anymore. Anyway. You sure you’re alright?” the guy says. “It’s gonna rain soon. Let me know if you want to come over, I’ll make some lemonade.”

– “We’re fine”, interjects Nancy, by now a good ten feet away. “Just fine.”
– “Alright”, says the guy. He turns to me. “If you ever want to go camping out here, you’re more than welcome to. It’s beautiful out here in the summers at night. Be careful not to put your tent up too near the wild path – see right over there where the grass is beaten down? It’s a cougar path. You don’t want to run in to a momma cougar at night. Or in the daytime, neither. Alright, take care now. It was nice meeting you.” And off he goes; slowly working his way back up the road until he is a mere shape of a man shrugged in a dusty cloud.

“Wow, he was nice. Not a homicidal maniac after all!” I say to Nancy. She doesn’t return my smile. And why should she? There’s nothing funny about it. I’m not taking a stand. My stand for neighborly love can apparently go fuck itself. Sure, my thoughts on how we should all just get along are hopelessly naive, and bound to shatter on the rocks of a more complicated world. But that does not alter the fact that I am taking the coward’s way out. As always. I am the eternal avoider of confrontation; the Switzerland of taking stands. Nancy just shrugs.
– “Yeah. Well. Must be a half breed. Now, let me get you another sandwich, dear. Let’s get some meat on those bones! I don’t want your mama to start worrying about you! Like our Janice. I told you about her, she was the bulimic? She used to eat all the time and then throw up all the time. You see, she didn’t like herself much. At least that’s what the doctor said. You know what I mean?”


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