“You don’t like it here? Then LEAVE.”
So I did.
In the summer of 2004, I accepted a very iffy teaching job offer overseas, jumped on a flight across the Pacific, and once I landed, never looked back. I actually made good on the promise that so many histrionic Hollywood liberals have screeched over the years, and fled the country for more succulent pastures when the nation of my birth became too much to bear.
Was I a visionary? Or a total loser who just couldn’t hack it in the supposed promised land, where so many of my peers and family had managed to succeed? After all, wasn’t the USA the blubbery, diamond-coated Mecca where everyone on the planet longed to be?
That’s the message that had been ball-peened into my brain growing up under the pomaded, turkey-necked image of Ronald Reagan: we were the City on the Hill, the envy of the world, the place where the unwashed billions were dying to escape to. The rest of the planet was a sad, oppressive, irredeemable shithole that could never compare with the paradise of plenty we called home. Right? We were privileged to be there, and also the biggest, baddest motherfuckers on earth.
American exceptionalism. Yee-haw.
And I believed it, because this wasn’t just coming from the wrinkly flag-waving set: most immigrants working in the USA would parrot the exact line, because many of them had fled actual hardship.
I remember taking part in an essay contest in the 6th grade sponsored by the VFW (Veterans of Foreign Wars). I’d realized that I was some kind of a writer by that point and really wanted to win the thing. My essay was a cheesy meditation on the mantra “WE ARE SO FREE” while also acknowledging my grandfather’s own contribution to our nation’s success, as he was a decorated WW2 vet and D-day lander. I was surely telling those crusty salts at the VFW hall exactly what they wanted to hear, and they rewarded me accordingly with a medal and a pamphlet on flag etiquette.1
Even though I got the nod from the old boys, I ended up taking second to a very articulate Colombian immigrant girl who went on and on about how clusterfucked her own homeland was, how it was a hellmouth of corruption, violence, and misery, before fellating the unimpeachable virtues of the USA. Her essay was a lofty ode to her family’s luck to have arrived in such a perfect place, and nothing swells the chests of patriotic Americans more than hearing how crappy other countries are.
Two decades later, when I found myself jaded, broke, disillusioned—and entirely convinced that much of what I had choked down as a kid had been a saccharine, red white and blue lie—I came to the dizzying conclusion that we Americans (USA-ians? United States-ers?) could also do the same as that Colombian girl’s desperate family had done back in the 80’: We too could get out of dodge when dodge got dodgy, only in the opposite direction. If we didn’t like it, we could simply leave, so I did just that.
*
I meditate on this because today is the Fourth of July—the most patriotic of holidays—and my twentieth spent as an American living abroad. While it’s rare that I observe Independence Day anymore, I often pause on the Fourth to ponder what it means to be an American, and how improbable it is that—despite the real blessings and opportunities presented to me back in the good Ol’ USA—I chose to opt out.
I’d like to say that I left because I had grown nauseated with what the place had become, and surely I was sickened. After all, George W. Bush had basically stolen the presidency in 20002 and went on to pretend like he had a mandate to run the place like his personal oil fiefdom, leading to the invasion of Iraq—an immoral, illegal, and monstrous attack that filled me with rage and shame and made me want to burn my passport.
But I needed my passport to NOT be in America, and despite my obvious disillusionment, I moved abroad for very selfish reasons: I longed for adventure and I had to make money, none of which was happening back in Yankee Doodle Land. Asia offered this immediately, without conditions, and despite my anti-patriotic bile, I couldn’t ignore the fact that South Korea—a thriving, kaleidoscopic land that seduced me the minute I got off the plane—owed much of its success to the country I was fleeing.
So was the USA so bad after all? Or was I just a neo-colonizer?
Despite my cocoon of American self-loathing, I learned early on in my days abroad that nothing raises the hackles of national pride more than being surrounded by people whose pastime is shitting on your homeland. While there was still a certain amount of lingering anti-Americanism in Koreans at the time,3 it was my fellow expats who spat forth venom on a nearly daily basis.
Again, this was during the Dubya Bush years, and people were irate. At us. Our national reputation had not just been dragged through the gutter, but was positively radioactive, and I hadn’t jumped on that international flight expecting butterflies and rainbows from non-Americans. Still, thick skin isn’t something you can just magically grow, and the ceaseless barrage of America-hating began to get under my tissue and fester, resulting in the ignition of a very quiet, but real furnace of patriotism somewhere deep in my guts, just because… fuck you.
The worst offenders by far were the Canadians. They were supposed to be our sweet, polite, understanding neighbors, but the contempt many of them had for the United States bordered on naked hatred, and they weren’t shy about expressing it. And for so many, being Canadian seemed to consume their whole identity, with garish maple leafs on their backpacks and laptops and coffee cups along with constant smug pronouncements of “I’m CANADIAN, not American.”
Also, in an era where we Americans were doing our best to lay low, the Canadians were wildly, shamelessly patriotic. They’d celebrate Canada Day—which lies on July 1st—with raucous parties at local bars, resplendent with flags, red and white face paint, hockey jerseys, and The Tragically Hip blaring from the speakers. They were at times chauvinistic in the belief their nation was the greatest on Earth, and bizarrely convinced that they were universally adored, when, in our community at least, most non-Canadians scoffed at such dopey displays of chest-thumping behind their backs.
The Fourth, on the other hand, was a largely muted affair, with no big celebrations, at least in the city where I found myself. Sometimes I’d meet a few American friends for quiet beers, and one night three of us went back to my tiny, one-room apartment, where we boiled up some hot dogs served on slices of white bread, washed down with a couple of cold cans of Bud. The blinds were pulled down and we hunkered in a kind of reverential silence, taking in our rightful communion like persecuted Christians conducting an apartment Mass somewhere behind the Iron Curtain of yore.
*
Independence Day was always always a cacophonous, chaotic affair growing up, an orgy of explosions, screeching rockets, and endless cascades of colorful sparks. The valley where we lived was also home to an Indian reservation on the banks of the river which bore the tribe’s name, which meant one thing: dangerous fireworks.
The tribe was exempt from the strict state laws regulating what fireworks could be sold and when. The state-licensed stands only operated for a week around the Fourth and were restricted to “safe and sane” products (lame), which meant sparklers and cones and sulfur snakes and Piccolo Petes4, none of which actually exploded.
The natives could basically sell whatever they wanted, which included Black Cats, ladyfingers, bottle rockets, mortars, and if you walked around the corner and talked to the tough-looking Indian in mirrored shades sitting in the black El Camino, you could even procure the good shit: M-80’s and M-100’s, which were capable of blowing off a whole human hand. Exciting stuff.
This meant that—much to the terror of the local dogs and cats—the screeches and explosions in the valley began in early June, when the Indians opened up the windows of their stands. My mom would send me down there on my BMX bike a couple times a month to pick up cartons of her smokes (much cheaper), and any spare bucks I had went straight into the hands of the fireworks pushers when they were open for business.
This meant our neighborhood sounded like the Battle of Stalingrad for weeks on end, culminating in an all-day atomic blast on the Fourth, where my grandpa would show up with a massive box of display fireworks he got from his buddy who owned an import company.
Kids from around the neighborhood flocked to our back yard to check out the neverending displays of multichromatic showers and rockets that burned and flashed in the night sky. We’d punctuate these “ooh and ahh” moments by lighting off whole strings of Black Cats, sometimes placed under the lawnchair seat of an unsuspecting (and soon very annoyed) adult. This went on well into the night, until we were out of ammo, though there were always unseen, rougher neighbors—usually in the trailer court across the pasture from our cul-de-sac—who kept the chaos booming until almost dawn.
As I grew older the Fourth became less of a thing, though when I lived in Seattle there were proper displays that always dazzled our eyes, especially when baked to the core on dank Northwest skunk weed. I remember holding hands with my willowy girlfriend and making out while the air above Lake Union came alive in vivid, incandescent clusters of sound and hues, causing my young heart to beat nearly as loudly as the mortars exploding above us.
And when I moved to LA, I once wandered down to the little lake in Echo Park on the Fourth, only to come across hundreds of Mexicans blasting the shit out of each other with Roman candles, bottle rockets, and cherry bombs. It was absolute pandemonium resembling a street riot, and when a palm tree caught fire and lit up like a gargantuan match, the whole smoky party erupted into whistles, hoots, and cheers.5
*
I think about these memories of Independence Day fondly, though you will note that I never once mention the flag or patriotism or any of that. We are very good at enjoying holidays while forgetting their true meanings, and for many Americans the Fourth of July is just synonymous with blowing shit up, something that we, as a nation, have proven remarkably adept at over our 246 year history. It’s so ingrained in our national psyche that it makes total sense that it’s the main way we celebrate the country’s birthday, and I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t miss it, at least a little bit.
But once you’re away from your country for long enough you become more and more disconnected, to the point that when you do visit, so much feels alien and unfamiliar. The last time I was back I was shocked that the streets of Seattle had transformed into the set of The Walking Dead, and many of my friends—even those doing well—spoke with a disarming bleakness, as if they realized the house was falling apart but felt powerless to do anything about it.
And then as I looked around at the strip malls and parking lots and endless sprawl and sketchy people camped out in public bathrooms, I realized that there was a reason I left in the first place. Despite the joy of seeing old friends and family, I was possessed with the urge to get out, lest I become trapped. There is a reason why most any time I go “home” I end up in Mexico. It just feels more familiar, in a way.
So here I am, on the 4th of July, 2024, standing on the rocky shores of South Korea and gazing across the Pacific toward my homeland with love and concern. Above the surging waves I see a few wisps of smoke and think: Are those just fireworks, or is my country burning down? Is America on fire, a massive conflagration of bacon fat, car tires, used diapers and fentanyl? And is it too late to douse the flames?
I don’t know the answer to these questions, but I do know that I’m glad to be here, on the other side of the sea, even if that means risking being vaporized in a North Korean nuclear attack. I already left one country and don’t plan on doing it again. At least not any time soon.
So Happy Birthday, USA. And God bless ya, because it looks like you’re gonna need it.
The pamphlet offered a dizzying number of regulations regarding the flag, including which direction the stars must face when displayed on the street (north or east, depending on the street’s orientation) and rules on flag disposal (folding it into a triangle and burning it over a fire while standing at attention, saluting, and reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, followed by a moment of silence).
Anyone who doubts that the Supreme Court is willing to hand the presidency to Donald Trump in 2024 has a short memory: They did exactly that in 2000, intervening by stopping the Florida recount, effectively giving George W Bush (who lost the popular vote) the keys to the Oval Office, with disastrous results.
In 2002, two middle school girls in South Korea were run down on a public road by a US Army armored vehicle. The soldiers manning the tank were found not guilty of negligent homicide in the subsequent court martial, igniting massive candlelight vigils in Seoul, and anti-American sentiment across the country. Things eventually simmered down, but when I arrived in 2004, the coals were still a bit hot.
The Piccolo Pete is a stand-up “safe and sane” firework that just screeches while producing a reddish flame. It’s obnoxious and loud but can also be made into potent explosive by capping off the top with plyers. I’m sure it’s responsible for a lot of missing fingers.
The fact that other nationalities embrace blowing shit up with more gusto than Americans (I’m sure many were American citizens, but I know Mexican parties and this was a Mexican party) was a lesson I learned that night. And a few years later, when I spent Lunar New Year in Shanghai, I would learn that the Chinese made the rest of us look like rank amateurs.
Bacon fat, car tires, used diapers and fentanyl. Sounds like a great $18 bespoke cocktail in hell.
Great read! Yeah, I will be celebrating the fourth here in the States. However, on the fifth, I will be heading to Thailand and Southeast Asia for a few weeks. I will try to capture a bit of the magic when I lived as an expat in Korea, Thailand, and China, and traveled throughout Asia. After my trip, it’s back to the States to begin my teaching job. Not so bad I guess, however, I could end up back in Asia to capture that magic again. Again, great read.