We left Pittsburgh for Ashland, Oregon, late in the morning; our only possessions were those that could win a spot in the Roof Bag or on Ali’s Cobalt’s backseat. With no room to recline, a crate of fruit for Ali, and Jared Diamond’s The Third Chimpanzee for me, we began our three thousand-some mile move across the country.
Along the way, I wanted to see America like I hadn’t seen it before, discover what binds it and what separates it.
Driving through the Midwest, I noticed that rear window decals were seemingly a must-have among truck and SUV owners. This could lead one to believe that America’s natural beauty is cherished by truck and SUV owners; sadly, it’s not the case. The purpose of these decals is to make vehicles seem more natural, less destructive, and as if they’re just another part of God’s green earth; it’s an underhanded tactic used by the automotive industry to blur the line that separates their products from Nature. As an experiment, make a list of cars as fast as you can: how many are given Native American names? How many are named after animals? Such deception can only be rivaled by cigarette ads that use athletic, well-aged models to sell a product that is known to reduce one’s athleticism and cause premature aging. The absurdity of these decals can only be rivaled by one drawing one’s curtains so as to block-out the setting sun, thereby reducing the glare on one’s computer monitor, the desktop background of which is, not surprisingly, a setting sun.
Intermittently, groups of motorcyclists would come between us and the decaled trucks and SUVs. They were as common as Perkin’s and McDonald’s placards were on highway information signs. The motorcyclists’ sense of fashion jumped from leather chaps to fresh-pressed jeans, from ponytails and skull-caps to sun-burnt balding heads that seemed to lose more hair with each passing mile. Many wore helmets, but they too varied from robotic-looking modular helmets to 1960s-era half helmets. They were bound by motorcycles, but what else, I wondered. After studying the motorcyclists for two states, I concluded that not much else brought them together, that they too, despite my initial thought that they took to the open road to marvel at the vast expanses of the countryside, were blind to the rolling hills in the distance.
I slowly began to realize that, despite my wishful thinking, most of America was probably bound by concrete, cars, “reality” TV, restaurant chains, and large corporations, not Nature. Each motel Ali and I stayed at supported this, offering variations of free cable TV and discounted meals at T.G.I.Friday’s.
Notwithstanding our current immersion in the human-made world, I’m confident we could rediscover Nature’s beauty (though it may take a major, sustained power outage to reset our mammalian disposition).
This is not to say that technology is pure evil — it’s not, at all; it’s very human, in fact. But it should not be our common denominator, Nature should. And the further we isolate ourselves from Nature, the more likely is our demise, for as much as we “depend” on technology, that technology, as well as human ingenuity, is dependent on Nature.
Ali and I no longer live in the Northeast; we live in the Northwest. Our new apartment is a beautiful day’s drive from Seattle, a city originally occupied by the Duwamish tribe. The Duwamish were (and still are) very grateful for their land and wildlife; their reverence is unmistakably and elegantly documented in a letter written by prominent Duwamish tribesman Chief Seattle to U.S. president Franklin Pierce in 1855: “Every part of the earth is sacred to my people. Every shining pine needle, every sandy shore, every mist in the dark woods, every clearing and humming insect is holy in the memory and experience of my people.” Admittedly, Chief Seattle lived in an entirely different world from ours. Today, we couldn’t possibly treat every pine needle as if it were sacred (except at Christmastime, of course). But we must admit that we live on the opposite extreme: where the Duwamish have love and respect for the earth we have contempt.
Chief Seattle’s letter went on to say that “[t]he earth is not the [white man’s] brother but his enemy…. Continue to contaminate your bed, and you will one night suffocate in your own waste.” Though Chief Seattle’s generalization is counterproductive and racist (and understandable, given the circumstances), his message has become increasingly relevant since it was issued over a century and a half ago — and now applies (as it arguably did then) to every culture across the globe.
If we do not, as a species, become bound by our mutual love and respect for the natural world, then we are, as a species, bound for a succession of calamities from which we cannot recover.
I knew this before my and Ali’s move began; it’s not a recent revelation for me. But the caveat became all the more real to me after I saw what we stood to lose: a planet so beautiful that one can travel 3,000 miles and not once see its beauty falter. When I realized that this beauty tragically goes unnoticed by most people, I came to understand that my unborn grandchildren would not see this planet if it isn't first seen by those driving on it.
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