40 States in 40 Days

I was going to write about hopelessness in Detroit.

After 23 days of unified hope throughout the U.S. we hit a city that looks like this. Houses in total decay, factory after factory left empty, entire neighborhoods silent. I had images of Hazmat suits walking down the main streets after deadly virus had run its course, scenes from zombie films and that old "Twilight Zone" episode where the soldier walks into a completely desolate town and everywhere he goes it looks like someone just left. Post-industrial wasteland is the perfect setting for a film.

It was hard to see, really. Detroit, birthplace of modern America, icon of car culture and industrialization...so quiet. Wiped out by corporate greed and economic recession, a city supported by a single industry can't stand when the industry collapses. The economy in the area crumbled to the point that people were forced to just walk away from their homes because it would them more to try and sell it.

The result is a city that isn't likely to come back. Gentrification isn't going to take place the way it has in Chicago, New York, and Nashville. A small group of artists and investors aren't going to fix up on neighborhood to its full bourgeoisie potential. There's not a strong enough economy to support it. Unless the American car industry has a huge resurgence, or multiple industries invest in the people of Detroit, the current trend of urban decay will probably continue. And it's hard to find hope in that.;.

That feeling came to a head for me when we visited The Heidelberg Project, a community arts project using objects found within the abandoned homes in the area. Tyree Guyton started the project with his grandfather and former wife in the 1980's and the project has grown to encompass a city block with found art sculptures, social commentary pieces, and powerful testaments to the racial and economic issues in Detroit's neighborhoods. As beautiful as it was to see a sign of life, the sign felt so small after driving through the city, and so sad after seeing entire houses covered with the stuffed animals children were forced to leave behind when their families moved to new jobs in other cities.

So I was going to write about the great irony of Detroit, iconic and essential to the modern American spirit, being the only place along our path thus far that has been without hope. But it isn't true. We saw hope at the Henry Ford Museum in Deerborn, MI (HUGE recommendation by the way. Easily one of the best museums I've ever been to.) A museum all of us had written off as just a car place, a testament to American capitalism turned out to be a refreshingly accurate look at American history and daily life. All because of people like Greg, our tour guide for the day and PR rep for the museum, who grew up in Detroit, going to the musuem and came back to work for it when he graduated from college. He has such a passion for his museum and his hometown and that he doesn't want to leave.

We saw it in Hamtramck, where the kindness of friends and family still holds strong, as we were treated to an enormous Polish/Ukranian meal made with care by a slew of workers. The traditions, the history, and the passion behind the food they gave us was much appreciated and well recieved, if the food coma we all found ourselves in afterward is any indication.

We saw it in Rossford, where Ken showed us his old neighborhood where everyone still walks together down to the park to watch baseball games and the kids all stop and wave when you drive past. And we saw it in Toledo, where the arts are loved and respected, and thriving to replace the failing industrial economy with a creative economy, and it's working wonders. All thanks to people like Mark Folk, who works with local artists and at risk kids to build the programs necessary to sustain a creative economy.

It's beautiful and powerful to see that happening, and I have to admit, it's hopeful. In an area struggling to make it into a new era, they are finding their way. And as Emma told me, there is something uniquely American about hope and ingenuity combined. Even to be able to pack up and move elsewhere and succeed in a new town or new career is an opportunity some never get.

So I can't write about the hopelessness of Detroit. It's going to a hard time, yes. It may never be the booming factory town it was, yes. But it will find its way. It just needs time.

Posted by Heather at 05:10 AM | Permalink

The tourist versus the local. It's been a major theme of this trip for us as we've planned our destinations and driven through the larger half of our route. Every place we've gone to has been either been dubbed cliche tourist attractions with gift shops and scary tour guides, or slices of local culture.

Everywhere we've gone (tourist trap or local eatery) we've tried to identify what it is that makes a place one or the other. Typically the answer comes down to the number of local visitors to the attraction, as well as the variety of shot glasses available in the gift shops. And there are always gift shops.

Because the tourist destinations tend to leave a sour taste in our collective mouth, I couldn't help be but a little bit nervous about our approach to Minneapolis/St. Paul, which houses the world-famous Mall of America. After all, it's a mall which boasts 35-40 million visitors every year. That is more than the number of visitors to Graceland, Disneyland, and the Grand Canyon, combined. That is more than the entire population of Canada. And it's all for shopping. I'd say it's the Mecca of Consumerism, but Mecca only gets 2 million visitors every year, so that doesn't quite cover it.

And yet...it didn't really feel like a tourist destination. Keeping in mind that we were in a mall during an economic crisis on a beautiful Thursday, it still just felt like a big mall. There wasn't anything particularly "touristy" about the place, aside from the (wait for it...) gift shops that were strategically placed near entrances, selling Mall of America t-shirts and souvenir lanyards.

In fact, as I walked around the Mall, if felt exactly like the mall I grew up going to with friends. Like the mall I spent my summers at home working part time jobs. Like the mall in Nashville that I worked during the school year. It felt like the places I went for Christmas shopping and date outfits, just like most people use malls. This was just four floors of small town malls, pushed together and filled in with specialty shops and Caribou Coffeehouses.

Several of us shared later that our conversations with shoppers revealed a largely local crowd. I was pleasantly surprised to hear most of the group really enjoyed their time at the mall, and wouldn't have minded spending more time there. I was surprised to find that I could've stayed a while longer myself.

After our tour of the mall, we headed into the city to the riverfront and to Mill City Ruins Park. Minneapolis has worked hard to preserve and revitalize the riverfront, where the city once prospered around the grain milling factories. Until the Washburn A. Mill exploded in 1878 after a spark ignited some flour dust inside the mill, the factories around St. Anthony Falls in the Mississippi River. In the past ten years, the city has revamped the riverfront area, building a museum inside the old Washburn Mill, dedicated to educating young Minnesotans about the milling history, a riverfront greenspace along the ruins of the park, and a shiny new theater.

We explored the area for an hour, and walked along the riverfront, admiring the mixture of Minneapolis architecture. From our perch on the Endless Bridge at the Guthrie Theatre, we could see four different bridges, each built in a completely different style. It made for a strange hybrid, but it worked. Here was a city that seemed more interested in diversity and history within its own borders than in impressing visitors with its cohesive style and tourist friendly attractions. I have to say, after three days of national parks, it was pretty refreshing.

For dinner, went to Midtown Global Market, built in part of an old Sears building. Again, I was nervous, as “Global Markets” have typically translated to expensive organic foods and upper class yuppies gathering around Ethiopian smoothies and congratulating themselves on their bohemian bourgeoisie lifestyles. But once again, we were greeted with local food vendors offering authentic meals and cultural artifacts from all over the world, and nary a yuppie. In fact, as we purchased our meals and sat around tables in the center court, it became apparent that we were the outsiders…tourists stepping into a local joint, feeling just slightly out of place.

After dinner we drove Harriet Lake and had class near the bandstand, watching the sunset over the city. We watched families play together in the park, couples snuggle together on a hill and read books next to one another, puppies tangle up in their leashes as they chased smells and fireflies, and children practice their dance moves on the bandstand while their parents looked on from the benches.

We all seemed to be in a good mood by the end of the day, and more than a few people said they could definitely live in Minneapolis as they watched the sky fade from blue to pink to a dusty indigo. I took a deep breath and realized all of my stress had been for nothing. I had been so afraid that Minneapolis would be another tourist trap, another nail in the coffin of the Midwestern reputation. But yet again, the cities that we have either little or low expectations for come through in the end. Our band of tourists had found the local and fallen in love. All in all, a pretty good day.

Posted by Heather at 05:00 AM | Permalink

Our day had an exciting start with a T.V. interview with the local news in Rapid City, South Dakota. Watch it at http://www.newscenterone.tv/default.aspx. Its cool to have some media interest in our trip!

Following the interview, we continued on with a day full of monuments, beautiful prairie scenery, and some harsh history lessons. Because we packed Mount Rushmore National Monument and Crazy Horse Memorial in the same day it was really interesting to compare the two projects. Beginning a little more than 20 years of each other, the monuments although seemingly opposite, share a lot of similarities.

Both sites boast a strong emphasis on education. While at Mt Rushmore, I witnessed several families with young children having conversations about history which was inspiring to see that dialogue taking place. At Crazy Horse, they have plans to build a medical center and all kinds of educational programs. Additionally, both monuments also went to grandiose measures to honor a part of history-- just the nostrils on Crazy Horse are 30 ft in diameter! They even shared one of the sculptors Korczak Ziolkowski, who worked on Mount Rushmore, is the visionary behind Crazy Horse. I think our group also responded similarly to both monuments. While it was hard not to be impressed and somewhat surprised by the sheer size and work that went into both monuments, we also had a lot of questions that went unanswered. What does this form of herofication say about our society? Are we honoring history or some sort of subjective memory? We have come across several monuments on this trip--The Alamo, Central High School, Mt. Rushmore, Crazy Horse, and Portlandia--and most agreed that Central High School felt the most genuine and appropriate without all the bells and whistles.

After the monuments we headed to Pine Ridge and the cemetery for the victims of the Wounded Knee Masscre. As we trudged up the hill to the cemetery I was flooded with emotion. The landscape of rolling hills and prairie, even the smells, evoked a feeling of home to me that mixed with the heaviness and despondency in the air to make a disturbing combination. Reflecting on it now, I can see the significance of this experience. Despite always knowing that the Native Americans had and are still experiencing injustice, it seemed to be something that happened a long time ago, far away, and by others. Being there, I was faced with the nearness of it and a sense of ownership that was hard to swallow.

Posted by Jenni at 05:05 AM | Permalink

We’ve encountered a lot of “wilderness” so far on this trip. The Southwest desert in Navajoland, the Grand Canyon, the Rocky Mountains, the Redwoods….We’ve spent a lot of time in cities along the way, and venturing out into country to see nature has been a soothing balance for our tired, over-stimulated heads.

Two days ago it was time for Glacier National Park. We loaded up on a breakfast of eggs and hot chocolate, bought all of the necessities of a proper cookout and headed into the park. It was cold and rainy, and a few of the other campers weren’t exactly eager to share their site with twelve boisterous people, but the park was beautiful, the water still, and the air refreshing.

I’m a “country girl”, raised in a Midwestern small town, who spent most of her childhood dreaming of cities and urban life. It didn’t really matter where, as long as the movie theatres are open after 9pm and the idea of nightlife was more than just 2am runs to the 24-hour Wal-Mart for taquitos and diet Mountain Dew.

As much time as I’ve spent running from the country, it’s still my home, and this trip has made me appreciate it that much more. I’ve loved almost every city we’ve been through, but the chance to be in nature really makes me wonder if we’re the “wild” ones. The crazed and gritty urban hustle seems like madness compared to the mist that covers a crystal clear lake as rain falls over the mountains.

Our quest for civilization seems so silly when you look at the clear order of things in nature, the peace that comes when every aspect of life is stripped down to its basics. The security that can be found in knowing you are nothing more than a part of the life cycle.

I still love the city, the ability to disappear down busy streets and all the amenities that come with urban wilderness. But I would take the wild stillness of Montana lakes in the rain any day.

Posted by Heather at 05:00 AM | Permalink

Even though I’m from Medford, only 5.5 hours south of Portland, I haven’t spent much time in our state’s biggest city. Every athletic Oregonian kid goes up to Portland for at least one sports event: I’ve done my share of swimming and gymnastics meets there, too. But I’ve never really gone out and explored the city.

We only had one day in Portland, and one in Seattle, so we didn’t have much time to see different areas of either city, but I thought it would be interesting to spend most of the day in one area and become somewhat familiar with it rather than jet all over the city with a brief stop here and there.

I saw Voodoo Doughnut featured on the Travel Channel and even though I guessed it would probably be pretty touristy, I decided that it merited a visit for our Saturday morning brunch. As we drove by the storefront, searching for a parking spot, I heard a lot of comments from the back seats about how the 35-person line out the door and down to the street corner resembled the one that forms in front of Nashville’s famous “Pancake Pantry” every weekend.

About 30 minutes later we stepped over the threshold to be greeted by a long list of sexual innuendo-laden doughnut choices. Their slogan, “The magic is in the hole,” is available on t-shirts and underwear. The doughnuts turned out to be average, and the prices were too. $1.50 isn’t bad when you think about the average cupcakes that are sold in Nashville as specialty items for upwards of $3.00! Voodoo even offered an entire 5 gallon bucket of day-old doughnuts for only 8 bucks. It was nothing extravagant, but people loved it.

After grabbing a doughnut we headed down a block to the Portland Saturday Market, under the famed Burnside Bridge. White vendor and exhibitor stalls were set up in a grid format through which wandered mostly middle-class families, often toting babies in an African-style body wrap or in strollers. An unshaven, raggedy performer on a drum set, complete with hands-free harmonica set-up, drew in handfuls of children joining in with the various musical instruments – maracas, triangles, and mini-djembes – that lay at his feet. It was a community oriented, family-friendly atmosphere. Even the 30+ homeless people sitting against walls and in front of the central fountain seemed happy. Among them were two families that I found myself thinking about later on in the day. One family consisted of a mother and father, seemingly in their early 30’s, a pre-teen daughter, and an 8 year-old son. They had a dog with them too. The young son was skipping around, collecting some scraps of paper, and ran up eagerly to show his dad, who smiled and congratulated his son on the find.

What struck me though is that these homeless families appeared to be part of the larger Portland community, not living on the outskirts of society, in some park that no home-owning person would ever venture into, like so many of the homeless in other cities we’ve seen.

The next day in Seattle we visited Pike Place Market. I was interested in comparing the atmosphere and visitor demographics of these two markets, seeing as they’re both set downtown in major Pacific Northwest city-ports.

Pike Place had a very different vibe. The first thing I noticed was the diversity of its patrons. Asians, Native Americans, Germans, Northern Europeans, Mexicans, French, Moroccans, Greeks; they all blended together into a steady blur of passing sights and intelligible sounds. The demographic was more upscale, wealthy people, and the street musicians followed the same trend. The market consists of an abandoned warehouse, renovated and divided into stores, and during a few days of the week local farmers may set up tents in the courtyard to sell their fresh produce.

Off to the side of the market, in a little grassy knoll overlooking passengers boarding a Norwegian Cruise Line ship, surrounded by 40 foot-tall Native American totem poles, was a group of Chinese immigrants practicing Fulan Gong (seemingly similar to tai chi) and protesting the alleged death camps instated by previous Chinese president. Volunteers with heavy accents requested several times that I sign a petition demanding President Bush to speak up against the camps (although since he’s no longer President I’m not quite sure what they were hoping for), but they couldn’t coherently answer many of our questions about the situation and their goal.

Seattle’s Pike Place Market wasn’t as stable a community as Portland’s Saturday Market; there was more traffic and less fellowship. I enjoyed the vibrant feel that reminded me of the excitement I feel when I go into an airport, the hustle and bustle of people going places. But I also enjoyed the leisurely quality family time that I saw taking place in Portland.

Seattle’s market was focused on commerce, fast and dry transactions, getting in and out as quickly as possible. Portland’s was slow-paced, enjoyable, focused on the arts. Both have their place.

I think of these cities in conjunction to different stages in life. Heather mentioned the other day that she thought of Los Angeles as High School and San Francisco as College. In a similar analogy, I think of Seattle as great place to spend my young adult-hood while my interests and focus are on building a career, meeting new people, spending time on the go. Once I get married and want to start a family, I think Portland would be a great place to settle down and raise my kids in a stable and friendly community.

But before I do either I’m going to have to get over my dependence on sunlight. Neither Portland nor Seattle seem to offer more than 10 or 15 sunny days per year!

Posted by Shirah at 05:00 AM | Permalink

Identity is a million dollar world in my life right now. I mean I'm on a 40 day journey attempting to "rediscover america" while, according to Erikson, I should be seeking my own personal identity. At each stop that we've been to, we try to grasp what we can of either the identity a city is selling or if we are lucky an authentic view. Seattle was no different. We came into Seattle with several pre-concieved adjectives--progressive, green, fishy. And left with some interesting questions...

One of the highlights of the day was the underground tour. What began as a corny pun-infested tourist trap, turned into a very insightful cultural experience. Diedrick our second tour guide was quircky, witty, and not aftraid to tell the whole story. Instead of the somewhat idealistic view of history that we got at the Alamo, Graceland, and Clinton Library, Diedrick told us about the ugly side of Seatle's orgins--mainly its poor urban planning. Seattle was usually the butt of most of his jokes which made him seem refreshingly credible.

As I thought about the day, I couldn't help but compare it to the Navojo reservation. I think it is safe to say that the Silversmith family on the Navajo reservation were some of the most genuine and impactful people we have met thus far. And what stuck out to me about them was the pride in which they regarded their culture, their land, the ribbons they won at the fair, the food they ate, even their dark past. The sense of ownership mixed with immense pride was somehting that I found myself envying. So here we have two similar but rather different cases of individuals who embrace their past and culture in a very authentic way--one slightly more cynical but both very refreshing and hopeful.

I've been thinking a lot about my identity as an american and a person lately. Living on a bus with 11 other people leaves no space, privacy, or time for facades. Its revealed a lot of things about myself that I didn't necessarily know--some good and some not so encouraging. Just like Seattle, Nashville, and America I have a package that I sell to those around me that isn't necessarily the whole story. Whoever I am as a girl and America is at a nation I want to BE without apologies or pretenses in the way we saw exemplified in Seattle and with the Navajo especially.

Tomorrow we begin our National Park sequence with Glacier, Yellowstone, and Mt. Rushmore. Stay tuned if their is a gap in posting, we aren't sure whether we will have internet or not.

Posted by Jenni at 04:55 AM | Permalink

The Wilderness Act of 1964 defines wilderness as "an area where man himself is a visitor who does not remain...with the imprint of man's work substantially unnoticeable." As I think back on today at Glacier National Park and the first 17 days of our journey I realize how much of our trip has been wilderness to us.

We started the day off at Night Owl Restaurant where we had a delicious and cheap hot breakfast. It was interesting to see the way we stuck out as a group of outsiders in a crowd that seemed to be predominantly local. Several times throughout the meal I felt the familiar discomfort of intrusiveness that I remembered feeling in other places like the church service in Little Rock and Fort Bliss in El Paso. In a way, all of these places mentioned were wilderness to us in some way or another and it was up to us to decide the way in which we were gonna survive. Did we possibly carry with us some metaphoric bear spray to keep enough of the wild out of these adventures to maintain our current beliefs?

I love the way Henry David Thoreau talks about being in nature "wishing to live deliberately to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not when I came to die, discover that I had not lived." As I write this I am wrapped in my snuggy in the parking lot of the Super 8 with a beautiful mountain towering over me. I can't help but feel small and humble with all that Glacier offered me today. It was so refreshing to experience something in a state of deliberate passivity because I had no need to put up a defense. I wondered how our breakfast experience would have differed had we viewed the small town diner culture as a wilderness...

The Rain didn't stop us from having S'mores on Big Mama (the bus)

Posted by Jenni at 05:05 AM | Permalink

It is Friday morning in the Universe. I am sitting on a rock in the Redwood Forest about 30 feet from a small stream. The trees around me are easily one hundred feet tall and 6 to 10 feet wide. Today is our day to relax and reflect. I am not sure where to begin this post. I hope that those of you who have been following our blogs posts have gained a bit of insight into this excursion. Perhaps we have even inspired you to go out and explore our country.

For me, this class has embodied all of the possibilities of the educational experience. I have summoned ten young, eager and inquisitive souls. I have asked that they embrace this journey and make it theirs. I have further asked that they share their stories with you. I was always taught that education comes with a certain responsibility and I think that it is important to share this experience with all of the people that made this journey possible. Certainly Belmont University took a chance by allowing me to turn this crazy dream into a reality, but also our many friends and family members that have met us along the way, cheered us on behind the scenes, offered support and advice, and even directions when our navigational instruments have failed us (I maintain that I am ‘eagle eyes’ with an incredible sense of direction).

I don’t have any idea what life was like for early settlers or the natives in this great land. What I do understand is that we have embraced the United States as a land of hope and possibility. It is clear that some Americans have greater possibilities and options than others. I have been forced to deal with my privilege and entitlement along the way. I think this type of introspection is healthy and has been one of the many eye-opening experiences for the students as well. But as I sit here on this rock, typing away on my MacBook I think of wonderful faces, hugs received from strangers, the breaking of bread with friends that I met only hours before, of 10 wide eyed students who are curious to know this world, and even more passionate to make a difference. Have no doubt that this is an exhaustive experience. We are fully entrenched in the potential of this class and together we attempt to rally even when we only want to sleep.

Why do families and friends camp? We have grown accustomed to the 50-hour workweek. We live to work, and sometimes work to scrape by. People camp to escape and get away. We want to hear silence, and breath clean air. It is hard to just sit and be in nature, but learning to think like a tree is perhaps the greatest lesson learned to this point. These trees that surround have not only survived, they have nurtured the lives around them, they have helped lost souls, they have provided homes and support and continue to reach toward the sky. The bark is rough and rigid from a hard life, but they stand tall and strong and proud. It is Friday afternoon in everywhere U.S.A. and I am exploring this great land and these amazing people. I am inspired and hopeful for our future.

I hope that those of you who have followed our story, and those who have stumbled across our trip have taken in a bit, perhaps you’ve even learned something new along the way. If time allows, and even if it doesn’t… I highly recommend finding a rock in a forest and just sitting to take it all in. Look at the sky. Be one with the wind and the trees. Meditate on that for a bit and let the workweek fade into the distance. Breathe in the good air and out with the bad. Feel free to reflect at anytime.

Posted by Ken at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

So I was awoken at 3:00 this morning by Ken, telling me that the bus was breaking down and that we were going to have to turn back to Los Angeles to get it fixed. This was immediately followed by the words: “We might have to skip San Francisco all together.”! By 7:00 I was still trying to process what exactly was occurring and I started making phone calls informing the people whom we were supposed to meet with throughout the course of the day that we weren’t going to be in the city until at least 2:00 pm. However, given the stressful nature of the hours of re-planning, the morning was speckled with incredible music, conversations, card games and just an overall stillness of being awake without running off the bus in the usual fashion of this trip.

After reworking our plans and realizing that we weren’t going to have a rental van, we decided to take the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) across the city. Regardless of the fact that we had to pay for transportation, riding public transportation all day (in a city that advocates living “green”) thoroughly excited me.

Our day began at the airport, where we jumped on the BART to 16th St Mission. This stop was about ten blocks away from the Castro district, wherein the majority of San Francisco’s gay population resides. As we walked up towards the district from a less-safe area of town, I noticed the gradation from working-class restaurants and shops to higher end locations, surrounded by Gay Pride rainbow flags and a slue of ethnic restaurants and stores.

We decided to break into groups to have different lunch experiences and converse with some of the locals. (I chose sushi!) As my miso soup arrived and I recognized I had no spoon, we leaned over to the man sitting next to us and asked, perfectly displaying our touristy-selves and uncultured nature, if we were supposed to just sip it out of the bowl. He slightly chuckled in answering yes, and continued to ask us where we were from. As our conversation developed, we began to detail the encounter we had had in Salt Lake City with the LGBT film festival and how we had been inspired by the energy of the gay rights movement throughout the country. He quickly became excited in our perspectives on the matter and we carried on a 45-minute discussion, learning that he was a professor at a college in Oakland, and had traveled outside of the US for the majority of his life. When we asked him what it meant to be an American, he explained how due to his travels abroad, he didn’t feel like he truly had a sense of American identity. So in slightly altering the question, we asked what the majority of people in other countries thought being an American entailed. These were the responses we received:

• Africa – idealized American (land of honey and milk, gold streets) false illusions that America most likely perpetuates through media and other displays of global power
• Europe – more cynical view on America (especially France and Germany), not placed on a pedestal like with Africa
• Japan – most xenophobic country, but is also in love with America due to closely tied histories, still attain a “Hollywood” version of American identity – something they strive for

Through this breakdown, I realized a multiplicity of thoughts: 1) America displays what it believes others believe it to be quite accurately (an application of Cooley’s looking glass self upon national identity if you will). 2) In thinking about how similar these perspectives were in comparison to what I expected Africa or Europe or Japan to display, I began to question where these reflected identities come from, and further, how they are perpetuated throughout society and then internalized and projected by our own citizens upon the identities of other countries?

After lunch, we regrouped and took the BART to Montgomery Station, in the North Beach area. As we walked through the streets, we passed the financial district of San Francisco, including the Transamerica Pyramid (tallest building in the SF skyline). We continued North, heading towards Vesuvio Café, City Lights Bookstore, and the hotel San Remo– all of which were key locations in the early development of the Beat Generation, which included figures such as Jack Kerouac, Alan Ginsberg, William S. Burrough, and Neal Cassady – and then continued to the Beat Museum directly down the street.

An interesting thing that I’ve been experiencing on this trip has been the self-embodiment of “tourist” that we’ve been analyzing. This feeling was in full form as I stepped up the stairs into the Poetry room in City Lights Bookstore. This room was where these literary geniuses would read their poetry, and as I walked in, camera in hand and unknowledgeable, I felt as if I was walking through Graceland, following the course that led to some spectacle that lent itself to idolism and remembrance. I felt the slightest animosity from the ‘locals’ in the room, who were reading some of the more obscure pieces of literature as our group flocked around multiple copies of Howl.

While we were in City Lights, my brother – who is currently going to Berkeley University in San Francisco – joined our group for the rest of the evening. Seeing him was absolutely incredible, and definitely provided that sense of home that I’d been missing.

Our next step was just a block away at the Beat Museum, which was founded about three years ago and displayed the personal collection of a Beat historian who decided to present the history of these visual artifacts to the larger public. As we walked around the museum, I noticed many similarities in presentation to other iconic historical places we’d witnessed. I felt momentarily troubled by this drawn parallel as I fought the association of the Beats to cultural ‘heroes’ like Elvis. While Elvis remains a key idol in the eye of the American public, I hold the work and influence of the Beat generation to much higher standard.

The idea of these individuals recognizing a fallacy in the way American literature was written, and then creating an entire movement to inspire a new form of writing in academia and expression in biography moved me to such emotional depth. It was through realizing the strength in their foundational work that allowed my discomfort to be quieted; and I believe I recognized a connection between some of the students’ participation in stepping outside of the four walls of a classroom, and this historical idea of progress and (r)evolution in regard to the experiences we’re currently attaining through embarking on this journey as we continue to alter the system through which education traditionally occurs.

Posted by Rashina at 05:00 AM | Permalink

We started out our first day in Los Angeles with a tour of CBS Studios in Studio City, CA, where they film shows like Entertainment Tonight and CSI: New York, while in the past other shows like Seinfeld and Gilligan’s Island. Entertainment Tonight’s Canaan Rubin showed us around many of the sets, studios, productions rooms, editing bays, and all the people that come together to make a show go on air.

This experience helped us get insight into the human hands that go into the finished products we see and experience throughout every day of our lives. Before our eyes, we were meeting the people and watching them edit a cultural artifact that would be sent out very shortly thereafter to many corners of the world. I will pick back up on this discussion further down on this blog, as I need to get into the rest of our time in Los Angeles.

From Studio City, we hopped on the 101, took the Malibu Canyon Road exit, and within half an hour, we had reached coast number two on this trip. Weaving around the mountains on the two-lane road, we came around one corner to just barely make out the deep blue in the distance. We barreled through a tunnel and a few seconds later, we were staring at the Pacific Ocean. It was a sight of much relief for all of us. By Day 11, we had reached the West Coast. We stopped of for a few minutes to rest, talk, and meditate (for me, with the accompaniment of Sigur Ros’s “Með Blóðnasir”, a two-minute song that has walked with me through many experiences over the past few years).

We took the Pacific Coast Highway down through Malibu and into Santa Monica, where we stopped to get some lunch and relax for the afternoon on the beach near the Santa Monica pier. After a few hours of some much-needed down time, we took off around 6 for Huntington Beach’s “Surf City Nights,” a weekly festival in one of the main hubs of Orange County . As we drove through Redondo Beach and then into Long Beach, further from LAX and closer to Orange County, we saw the scenes change much, while still staying on the Pacific Coast Highway. From the plush $10 million dollar homes in Malibu, with a few local restaurants and the beach highly visible, we cut inland to find Fast Cash and liquor stores on many corners. As we kept driving, we stumbled upon the underbelly of Los Angeles County, which probably explains the stratified neighborhood surrounding it: the shipping docks…acres and acres of nothing but huge crates, cranes, and barges. This is the image of Los Angeles we never seem to see, yet it is, I’m sure, incredibly important to its economy.

The sun was lying down over the ocean as we were parking in Huntington Beach and we were able to absorb its last rays with the accompanying wind along the soft sand of the beach. We grabbed some fish tacos (tofu for me) from Wahoo’s and walked around for a bit, only to walk upon a pretty interesting group of guys breakdancing on the street, sharing with us themes of cultural understanding, love, and staying away from drugs. The interesting thing was that the group continued to play up racial and ethnic stereotypes in efforts to get money from the crowd, to which nearly everyone was turned off. Not the best strategy to get money by loudly proclaiming “ten dollars from the Asian lady everyone!” Our incredibly tired group ventured on back up to Venice Beach to crash in the bus for a few hours of sleep.

We were up early on Day 2 in our dire need of showers, to which one of the UCLA rec. centers came to the rescue. (We hadn’t showered since Salt Lake – going on day 4 by that point.) We drove up and through Beverly Hills to see the smog-covered city beneath, next to many multi-million dollar homes yet again… After a little time here, we decided to head to Anaheim for Disneyland.

Now, this is where I will pick back up with what I left off earlier when talking about all the human thoughts, hands, and words that go into cultural artifacts that we use – rather, consume – on a daily basis. In the week before we left on the trip, we were asked to read the social theorist Jean Baudrillard’s article on Disneyland and hyperreality. In my perspective, Baudrillard is saying that in Disneyland, we all know that the settings are fake and the plots for all the attractions are simply there to entertain us. We see Goofy and know there is a person inside the suit. When in the queue line for the Haunted Mansion, we realize that all the gravestones, the cobwebs, the wallpaper, and the employees’ uniforms are put there to get us into a mood, to entertain us, if you will. Disneyland presents to us a simulation of the real, the actual, what truly (or imaginatively) exists in reality: The jungle vines, the quest for treasure, and the slue of eastern statues leading up to the Indian Jones ride speak to our Orientalist ideas of the East, laden with danger, adventure, and mysticism. At Space Mountain, we have everything – the chairs, the archways, the trash cans – ending in futuristic, pointed angles… containing purple and silver (and outdated) designs of galaxies everywhere.

What Baudrillard is saying is that we live in a permanent Disneyland, with a gift shop at every corner. Nearly everything we encounter on a daily basis has been laid out by human hands and minds: the houses we live in, the cars we drive, the roads we drive on, the toothbrushes we use, the television we watch. The Disneyland themes of “happily ever after” and “the place where dreams come true” are more covertly laden in advertising media. All of it was designed by some one to sell us something – an item, an idea, a path. When we fail to see all that we encounter as products of engineers, of urban planners, of scriptwriters, we begin to believe that this is reality. As a good friend of mine often does, let us imagine the landscape as just that – the landscape, free of buildings and all our creations – simply as nature. Los Angeles as a desert coast. Aspen as a mountain. Chicago as a lakeside. Disneyland as a simulation of reality then becomes reality itself, because we know this theme park was created for our entertainment, our pleasure, our dollar. What we call reality on a daily basis is a simulation without a map of the original – in essence, the hyperreal. There is no reference point by which we define this human-created reality. This hyperreal we will buy, barter, and consume throughout our lives. This was worded beautifully by an interior designer from Irvine, CA, who I was able to chat with in the line for Space Mountain. “Orange County is a Disneyland. You have your women running around – breast implants, tiny waists, Range Rovers, incredibly tan, holding 9 dollar coffees. It is a system that defines itself as to what is desirable, and none of it is real. Yet it is so easy to get trapped in that system.”

So, how does this lead us into what it is to be an American? What actually unites us on a daily basis? The answer might be simply – consumption.

Posted by Chris at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I decided to have Vegas be my first city because it is a place that I have already been to and I had fond memories of being there with my family. When the class got to scouting around the city though I realized that both the great, big city and I had changed. We both had grown and learned some stuff. No longer was I able to see this place simply as a tourist destination; instead I continued to find my vision of it clouded with all that I have gained thus far in my education.

We began the day by going to the Las Vegas Convention Center. I thought it would be interesting to get an inside look at one aspect of the biggest industries in the city, county and even state: tourism. The tour shed light on ideas that are known about Vegas but are not always recognized within the public. Take for example the branding of Vegas, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” The branding of this city is second only to that of Google! With branding a person must once again reflect on consumption in America. Why is it that American’s wish to escape from their daily lifes to places where morals are not recognized generally or even expected? I believe that this mindset speaks of a greater issue within American society that I have yet to truly define. In fact, I am not sure one can define such a mentality until you fully understand what it means to be an American. So with that in mind let’s get back to the day.

While at the convention center we were also made aware of American’s consumption because of the trade show that was taking place within the building. It was a beauty trade show so all the exhibitors had merchandise for the betterment of the female body generally. The amount of men present was barely existent. However there were women flocking everywhere. Gender can be a great predictor of purchasing patterns. I wondered once again though why? Is it because we are socialized (until a recent, and slow change) that women are the ones that are always concerned with their looks while men are not viewed in such frames? This sounds plausible, and frustrating.

Sometimes a person just gets lucky. That was the case for me with going to Red Velvet Café for lunch. En route there all I could think was something along the lines of “oh my gosh, I hope this place is good and how much further.” It turned out that I/we got more than just a good meal! Another customer was a sociologist from Las Vegas. A group of us ended up talking to her for quite a while. She brought to surface some of the things that a tourist would most likely not realize about the city. One thing that stuck with me is she said that Las Vegas citizens tend to lack a cultural identity. Due to the way that they live their lives based on tourism their identity and unity is sacrificed at times. The city government has become aware of this situation, and is giving feeble attempts to fix this huge problem. It concerns me though. If a place doesn’t have an identity besides its business than it has no foundation in which it can fall upon if say a recession removes most of the aforementioned businesses. American’s are kind of like this too. Without our own personal identities America cannot be founded on a firm foundation either.

To be continued: either here or a new post.

Posted by Elisabeth at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Yesterday our bus was late heading into Salt Lake City, which was great because it put our group in the position to be able to see the city we were headed towards, rather than just magically wake up there. It was interesting to watch as we rolled into Salt Lake because we were literally in the middle of nowhere for the longest time, and then all of sudden the landscape of a city came into view. It didn’t appear to be too big or too small, but just the right size with tall buildings, an oil refinery and billboards waiting for us in the distance. Noticing that the mountains were situated around the city, it occurred to me that Salt Lake City is as unique as the grand body of water that it is named after.

After showering at Westminster College our group headed to lunch at Tony Caputo’s Deli downtown. It too was just the right size for a Sunday afternoon. The rustic little restaurant was very welcoming as we ordered our various sandwiches and salads. I couldn’t help but feel like this restaurant, and even the entire block did not belong in Salt Lake City, at least not the preconceived image of Salt Lake that I had in my head. I wasn’t expecting Utah to have a grid system that was easily navigational, and I wasn’t expecting such progressive, cultural restaurants either. We later found out that this deli was rated America’s Outstanding Specialty Restaurant for 2009, and none of us were surprised at all. Inquiring more about the restaurant I stroke up a conversation with two employees by the names of Andrew and Evan. Andrew informed me on the Caputo’s history that goes back about ten years. According to Andrew, “You wouldn’t come to this side of town ten years ago.” But apparently Tony Caputo did come, and he built his restaurant here and because of his restaurant that the entire neighborhood began to improve. As Andrew and I talked, he pointed out Mr. Caputo as he entered the deli. I caught him headed towards the back of the store carrying a painting that was wider than his frame and I wasn’t surprised at all to see what seemed like a forward thinking man bringing value in the door with him. Lunch at Caputo’s was a nice way to start off the day because it put a good taste in my mouth (literally) concerning Salt Lake, especially with the chocolate. There was a specific section in the deli that served fresh gourmet chocolates (all made from Mr. Caputo’s recipes), and they were good. Several of us bought different pieces and I think we all enjoyed them. The restaurant also featured chocolate called Amedei, which is the #1 chocolate in the world. Supposedly only 14 places sell it, and we all tasted a piece. Let’s just say it was pretty awesome. It had a very rich chocolate flavor and because of that it was a little overwhelming, but completely enjoyable.

Although the food and the chocolate at Caputo’s was great the discussion that I had with Andrew and Evan was not so great because it revealed a side of Salt Lake that I had not noticed yet. They mentioned how the city and even the state government was so influenced by the Latter Day Saints culture that they felt like they were living in a “theocracy.” They elaborated on this sentiment by mentioning several laws and policies that I found to be quite absurd like the Not-a-Drop Law (where anyone under 21 caught driving with the slightest amount of alcohol in their system receives an automatic DUI), the fact that all liquor stores must be state run, limits on the amount of tickets for an R-rated movie that a person under 25 can purchase, banning certain films (like Brokeback Mountain) because they represent the LGBT community. There were even rumors that a certain LDS university in Salt Lake was known for treating gay and lesbian students with electro-shock therapy in order to “cure” them. To my knowledge, this rumor has not been confirmed but I think that it is still worth taking notice of. After talking to Andrew and Evan I didn’t leave Caputos Deli with the great taste of chocolate that I was hoping to leave with. It was more like intolerance.

As I walked through Gateway Mall later that day I couldn’t help but notice that there were no traces of the intolerance the guys at Caputo’s wised me up to. In fact the Gateway seemed to be just an extension of the hip environment that surrounded the deli. I saw more diversity than I was expecting. Interracial families, minorities (mostly of Latin descent), same sex couples, liberal individuals, and stereotypical majority Salt Lakers all walked around and shopped in the same mall. I also noticed that a lot of the stores were very familiar. This seemed like the type of mall that could be any where in America, and there were no traces of specifics that were unique to Salt Lake. In the Sociological world this McDonaldization is frowned upon usually. But in this situation, I wondered if the familiar was really that bad. If the familiar brought so many different types of people together, I questioned where the bad was in that. There was a fountain shooting water from the floor with children playing around it, and God Bless America was playing in the background. The scene was so nice that I wondered if the Caputo’s guys were wrong about Salt Lake City. Then the issue with the security guard happened.

Rashina, Chris and I were walking around the mall, and Chris was taking pictures as he always does when we were approached by a security guard with really cheap sunglasses. He asked Chris what he was taking pictures of. Chris replied that he was just capturing the scene. The security guard asked again what he was taking pictures of and then told Chris to put the camera away. Although we all felt awkward, Chris complied and began to walk away. The officer then called us back and told Chris that he was to leave the mall now. We tried to explain to him that we were traveling in a group and that we couldn’t leave, but he proceeded to raise his voice, commanding us to exit the premises. So we walked towards the exit. After taking several steps we noticed that this same security guard was following us, and the one word that came to my mind was intolerance. It seemed like the guys at Caputo’s were right.

I kept thinking about this idea of tolerance as we continued throughout our day. As we walked around Temple Square and went on our guided tour, I couldn’t help notice not only the hidden intolerance but also the blatant attempts at socialization. All of the tour guides that we met seemed to lack personality. And I don’t mean that they were boring people, they just didn’t seem like people. Talking with these women put me in the mind set of Ira Levin’s Stepford Wives, which is unsettling to think about. In the North Center, the Christus that took up the second floor gave several people goose bumps. It was comprised of a twenty foot statue of the Christ, surrounded by a backdrop of walls painted like the galaxy, along with a recording of someone ominously reading several scriptures in attempts to sound like Christ. I think that this is a classic example of what most of the architecture is trying to do: put visitors in a place of vulnerability in order to win them over. As a Christian this bothers me, and that’s all that I will say about that…

From here our group headed over to the “Damn these Heels” Film Festival at the Tower Theatre. We watched OutRage, a new documentary about closeted politicians who were being “outed” because of their support of anti-gay rights. I thought that director Kirby Dick did a great job of displaying some of the hypocrisy that is hidden behind the white walls of the White house. Whether you agree with gay rights or not, I think there is something to be said about a government in which the politicians in it feel the need to closet their true identities. You would think that in a true democracy people would be able to honest about who they were and what they preferred whether it’s right or wrong, because it’s a personal choice to be right or wrong. When choices like that are stripped from you, I think it’s time to sit down and rethink the ideology behind democracy. It seems like Salt Lake City, more specifically some of its citizens may want to rethink some things.

Posted by Cory at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

My favorite moment yesterday was seeing the Grand Canyon for the first time. We entered the park and were driving along; the scenery around us hadn’t changed at all for 50 miles, when, out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of the opposite side of the red-, orange-, purple-, and yellow-striped canyon wall. Both vans immediately pulled over and we piled out at Mather Pt., completely in awe of the great crevice and the ledge that dropped off inches in front of our toes. The North Rim, at 8,800 feet, loomed 1,800 feet above us as we stood at the edge of the South Rim. The Colorado River raged 6,000 feet below us.

The whole experience seemed surreal; my sense of depth-perception was non-existent. It was as if someone had hung a sheet in front of me and painted a colorful, hazy horizon, a breathtaking illusion.

I was bold at first, clamoring around rocks and tourists to get a good view on one of the broad ledges. But as some hung back in fear, it started to hit me that this wasn’t an illusion; just one wrong step and I could be well on my way to the bottom of the canyon. I sat down on a sunny rock and tried to minimize my movements. My muscles started shaking uncontrollably; my voice became quiet and wavered softly. I watched groups of thrill-seeking visitors step confidently to the very edge of the outcropping, turning their backs to the canyon to pose for pictures that would be the pride of their vacation. When they recounted to their friends the dangerous nature of their recent escapades they would not be exaggerating. To sit at the edge of a 6,000 foot ledge and dangle one’s feet into a canyon, leaning over periodically to view the raging Colorado River below, requires a grave malfunction of the amygdala or a serious case of misinformation about the law of gravity.

After thoroughly examining the canyon from our viewpoint at the South Rim, we headed into the Grand Canyon Village to stock up on water before setting out on a hike. A wise hiker advised us to take minimum 1 gallon of water per hour for each hiker. I had brought exactly one half-drunk 16 oz. bottle of water, and no one else had brought much more than that, so it was clear that we were going to need some supplies. The general store was nice and new, but generally way overpriced. And walking into a giant grocery offering 6 brands of water took a little bit of the cherished ruggedness out of the experience. I would have preferred a little shack offering one flavor of ice cream cone, a rain poncho, a lone bottle of ketchup on the shelf, and a water spicket out front to this commercialized version of adventure.

In thinking about the greatest trips I've ever taken, it's not the most comfortable ones that make the Top 3. In fact, it's the emergence of happy moments in miserable conditions that truly make a trip memorable. Upon leaving the all-in-one grocery/deli/bakery/hardware store/sport apparel shop, I took a moment to mourn the loss of small town general stores and their delightful meagerness.

I soon forgot my shopping sorrows as we descended into the canyon by way of the Bright Angel Trail. The plan was to go 1.5 miles to the first water station and then turn around and hike the 1.5 miles back up. Halfway to the water station I looked up, saw a good 300 feet above me, and started to wonder if I would make it back by dark. I started scoping out little nooks in the canyon wall along the trail, making note of where would be a good place to curl up for the night--just in case. There is nothing that I feared more than being stuck on the trail in the dark--it was sandy, rocky, slippery, full of branches, and had absolutely no guard railing at any point. To make matters worse, I had just listened to a grocery store attendant tell a woman that, "More people have fallen in this year than normal. Each day we have a few fall in. Not all of them die though."

I found my only comfort in my dad's last words of our conversation the previous day: "Feel free to go get hurt; I already paid the insurance deductible for your brother's surgery this year, so you're totally covered." At least they won't leave me to die on the operating table for lack of insurance coverage, I thought. I mean, really, how many general insurance plans would usually cover falling into the Grand Canyon? I felt lucky to say the least.

It really didn't turn out to be all that bad. We made it down to the water station in about 45 minutes, filled up our bottles, and headed back up. Emma and I started to feel lightheaded on the way up--probably due to a combination of elevation change, sun, and no food--so we stopped a few times to rest for a minute or two. But an hour and 15 minutes later we arrived at the rim, tired, but safe and sound.

We had an hour and a half drive ahead of us to get back to the bus in Flagstaff, but hunger won that battle and we stopped for dinner in Williams. Pizza! I can't tell you how good it is to be out of the South and away from all their fried food. There are a lot of things I like about the South but you must understand, fried food is not one of them.

We had a great day in Salt Lake City today, which I'll tell you more about tomorrow. For now, we're on our way to Las Vegas. We have plans to visit a wedding chapel tomorrow afternoon, and there's been some talk about a possible impromptu marriage, so if I come back from this trip married, you'll know what happened!

Posted by Shirah at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Where to begin? I’m am completely overwhelmed by trying to convey in a few short paragraphs what this day meant to me personally, and how I think it affected our group as a whole. We had no idea what to expect from our day that would be spent on a portion of the Navajo Reservation of New Mexico and Arizona. We met up with our guide for the day, Leland Silversmith, at the reservation’s visitor’s center outside Gallup, NM and across the border into Arizona. For those who may not be familiar with the Navajos, I’ll attempt to give a very brief history of the land and people based on previous research that I, as the “ambassador” for this destination, had to undertake and information we were taught while on the reservation.

“Navajoland” encompasses an area of approximately 27,000 square miles in Utah, New Mexico and Arizona. The area lies within what the Navajo people consider to be four sacred mountains, called the “Four Corners.” The Navajos are the largest Native American tribe with a population of about 320,000, of which about 200,000 live on the actual reservation. The Navajo government is the most sophisticated American Indian government, with the same three branches as the U.S. government. The tribal government was formed in the 1920’s to facilitate the sale of rights for American companies to excavate natural resources like coal, minerals, uranium and natural gas. These resources provide money for tribal land funds, as well as jobs for the Navajo people. However, we heard while on the reservation that they were continually short-changed for the price of their coal, and had they been paid full market price for it, they may have become one of the wealthiest peoples in America. The main trade for this tribe today on the reservation is shepherding and raising cattle.

When the United States acquired the Southwest and California after defeating Mexico in 1846, the US military, led by Kit Carson, established a scorched earth policy regarding Native Americans in the area; they burned their homes and crops, killed their livestock, and basically starved those Native Americans who had not already died into submission. They forced over 8,000 Native Americans, mainly Navajos, to march approximately 300 miles from their homeland to a small camp in New Mexico called Fort Sumner and kept them there for 4 years in an internment camp. In 1868, a treaty was signed between the Navajos and the United States government that allowed the Navajos to return to a small portion of their original homeland in return for certain services like compulsory education for Navajo children and agricultural aid provided by the US government. This was just a small part of the long and troubled history of this beautiful and resilient tribe we were privileged to observe for one day.

Leland Silversmith met up with us with a full itinerary prepared after having pulled a 12-hour shift at his job at the casino in Gallup, NM. He brought us to his family’s home, where his parents (who are in their 80s) graciously opened their home to us. Pastor George Silversmith, Leland’s father, told us stories both amazing and heartbreaking from his youth, from his time as a tribal police officer, from his years as a coal miner on the reservation and about his life now as shepherd, farmer and minister of their small church that’s on their property. He told us how when he was young and forced to go to boarding school, the Navajo children were beaten for speaking their native tongue, how the Caucasian boys would sometimes lie to the teacher and tell them George was speaking Navajo simply to watch him scrub the floors or have his mouth washed out with soap. He told us how when he was a tribal police officer, non-Navajos would come to the taverns at the edge of the reservation, get drunk and come over to cause trouble on the reservation and yet he had to simply stand by and let them go, because he was told repeatedly, even threatened, by state police or other sheriffs he had no jurisdiction with non-Navajos. We heard Leland’s sweet mother, Fanny, cry as she told us how much she missed her children when they were away, and most of them were, because of the lack of educational and vocational opportunities on the reservation.

We simply sat in their church, a traditional hogan adjacent to their house (which their family had built with their own hands using stone and logs hauled from many miles away), and listened as this humble, kind and gracious family shared their stories with us, stories of hardships, love and overwhelming pride in their people and culture. Mrs. Silversmith’s family has been on their plot of land for generations and generations, and she speaks of her land with such love and pride it brought tears to my eyes every time she told us that this was her home and she would never leave, no matter how others might try to take their land, which is an issue the Silversmiths constantly struggle with.

Leland had his own journey to tell us about. In 2008, he walked across America, from Alcatraz to Washington D.C. along with about 100 other people fighting for the rights of Native Americans, protection of their sacred sites and the cause of environmental protection that so many Native American peoples feel so strongly about. This walk was the 30-year anniversary of a walk called “The Longest Walk” organized in 1978 as a part of the American Indian movement, which resulted in many advances in rights for Native Americans. Leland says that he participated in the walk last year because he feels that the elderly members of his tribe do not have a voice; for example, there are elderly members of his tribe, including his own family, who have experienced people simply building on their land without asking and people building and bulldozing over ancient gravesites. Lee says that he went to march to Washington on behalf of these forgotten peoples’ prayers and tears. It put this trip in perspective for me. He laughed when I asked if he and the others stayed in hotels along the way. Of course they didn’t- they either camped out at other reservations or stayed in community venues that were offered to them along the way. Thinking about how later in the day, we would be able to come back to our fancy tour bus and have someone drive us through the night made me feel so privileged, and not necessarily in a good way. Though I’d like to think that our group is also fighting in a way for the greater good: fighting to ask tough questions, to raise awareness through our words and actions about social justice issues, to examine what it means to be a part of this larger body of American citizens and the responsibilities that come with that, I couldn’t help comparing the two journeys.

The Silversmiths made us a wonderful lunch of “Navajo Tacos,” which consists of the traditional Native American food of fry bread covered in taco food like beans, meat, lettuce and tomato, and we had homemade huckleberry jam on fry bread for dessert. Leland took us in to the capital of the reservation to allow us a chance to see Navajo history up close. We traveled in our van to Window Rock, AZ and got a chance to see the executive branch of the Navajo government. We were given a history of the tribe and an introduction to how the Navajo government works by the program manager, Lamont. We also heard what issues the Navajo people were still dealing with today.

He told us of how Navajo men and women were approved to work in the uranium mines that the US government built on the reservation, but received no warnings about the harmful effects of radiation. Today, babies are born with deformities and the people who work in the mine are getting cancer. The educational system is nowhere near up to par with American public schools, though adequate education is one of the promises made by the treaty of 1864. These people must face constant encroachment on their land by outside forces, and Lamont offered that he believes it is because the Navajo people see the land that they live on as a small portion of land they have been able to retain, while the US government sees the land they live on as a generous portion of land they have allowed the Navajos to occupy. The mining industry on their land presents a deadly predicament. The mines are currently producing pollution that is poisoning the earth that the Navajos hold so sacred- it has contaminated the rivers and made them undrinkable, and harmed their people’s health. However, without the jobs and revenue generated by the mining industry, the Navajos would face even deeper poverty than they currently deal with. According to Lamont, recent statistics (since the recession) studying the Navajos show unemployment at around 55% and the average family income at a little over $8,000 annually per household.

But we heard hope in his stories, too. Lamont spoke of efforts to tailor their Head Start programs and grade school education to embrace the Navajo language that is quickly dying out as a result of previous generations, like George and Fanny, who were not allowed to speak it in their schools and so did not teach their children for fear they would be punished as well. He talked about forming culturally-sensitive educational models to teach a mixture of Western and Navajo history and culture, and how they are trying to instill in their children that if they leave the reservation for college, their Western education should complement their Navajo identity.

We also got a chance to visit the office of the largest Native-American-owned newspaper in the world, the Navajo Times. We learned lots of interesting information from the editor, who took time out of his day to show us around, but there was one point he made that really stuck with me because it was such a different mindset than others we had encountered on our journey. He told us how they, as a paper, refuse to capitalize on what he called “Navajo misery.” He said other papers in the area will cover tragic stories about the Navajos in a tabloid-like manner. However, the Navajo paper believes they have an ethical and cultural responsibility to their people to respect ceremony and mourning; if a tragedy has happened within a Navajo family, the Navajo Times reporters wait to be invited to the family’s home to cover the story and they do get invited because the community understands they will treat each life, each story, with respect. The editor told us “not everything is for sale.” However, comparing this mindset to Graceland, where millions are herded past the Presleys’ graves decorated with flags with Elvis music playing in the background, I realized that this ethical responsibility to treat each life with respect is not shared, that along the way we have continually found that almost everything is indeed for sale.

We left with Leland to return to his home, where we tried our hand at sheep-herding by driving out on his family’s land into a beautiful canyon where supposedly, we were going to find the sheep and herd them back to the pen in their backyard. We had a nice hike but eventually gave up on finding the sheep. Of course, when we returned to the house, the sheep were already back in the yard (so we decided we had done the job right anyway). We were all set to leave and give the Silversmiths a break from having guests, but Fanny, along with her daughter and granddaughter had already made us a second delicious meal. So we sat for the second time that day with this generous family, in their small frontyard overlooking some of the most beautiful land I’ve ever seen. Leland slipped easily into his traditional storytelling voice and told us a story about why it was important to protect our land today for the sake of our grandchildren. We eventually left this warm family setting with what seemed like a thousand hugs and a few tears as well.

We had asked them earlier in the day what it meant to be an American, as we have been asking people all along our journey. They all seemed to be confused by the question – Leland said they do not consider themselves American, they are Navajo. Their people have been here since before “America” even existed. In a way, you could view finding distinction between Navajos and Americans as a way that we are separate and different. But as Leland told us with sincerity over dinner, we are all the same – we are all people who deserve respect and who have a responsibility to our earth and our people. To hear this message from this family was touching and humbling. By the end of this trip, I hope I am even closer to living my life by the ideals that the Silversmiths live by. When we were driving back to our bus, Professor Spring asked for initial reactions about the day. The first thing we all expressed was the disbelief that we had never heard these stories about the history and current conditions of the Navajo people. How had we never learned about this important part of our own country? If we had never heard these stories, how many other Americans knew? So that is the goal of our posts from this day: to bring awareness about this group of people who feel (rightly so) forgotten by our country.

Posted by at 05:00 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

When I was a kid, I used to look out my window up at the North Carolina sky every night. We lived 15 minutes from the airport, and the direct path to the main runway seemed to go right over our house.

Tucked away tight in my covers, I’d look up and see large objects with flashing lights. All logic suggests that these objects were airplanes-but try explaining that to a superstitious 9-year-old.

To further investigate my suspicions, I used to check out a UFO book from the elementary school’s little library. I didn’t need the Dewey Decimal System-I could walk blind-folded to the exact spot where that book rested.

Fast forward 10 years and I’m on the streets of Roswell, New Mexico-a small town of 70,000 people that has fully accepted alien, UFO, and extraterrestrial culture. The McDonald’s playground is shaped like a flying saucer, and the Arby’s sign reads “Welcome Aliens.”

We’ve been asking the same questions all trip long-what makes a city unique and what draws people to come here? Well, as someone who is an “unexplained” junkie, I didn’t have to go far for that answer.

For me, the mystery and possibility behind UFO’s is the real draw to Roswell. Science can’t prove that aliens don’t exist-but they haven’t been able to prove that they do either. Do I believe aliens exist? Not necessarily-but the topic is intriguing.

Our first stop was the UFO museum-and things were a little hard to follow right off the bat. We weren’t treated to breathtaking visuals, but rather one giant poster board presentation that spanned across several thousand square feet. (Luckily, plans are in the works for a more impressive facility.)

Regardless, the museum was slightly disappointing in that it didn’t really provide anything new or interesting to a veteran UFO fan.

But we quickly discovered that the UFO museum wasn’t the main attraction of Roswell-stories from the locals were. Instead of being bitter towards the cheesy, touristy elements of Roswell, the town seems to embrace it full on.

Because of the small town atmosphere, many residents during the 1947 crash and subsequent government cover-up are still there. One woman I talked to recalled the story of a friend who was in town when the government convoy carrying the supposed UFO rolled through. Something happened here in 1947, that’s for sure, she said.

However, not everyone in Roswell glorifies the UFO experience. In the afternoon, we met with Guy Malone-one of the founders of a group called Alien Resistance-at the Not of This World Cafe. AR is a Christian organization that is out to convince people that “aliens” are actually forms of fallen angels and have a spiritual connection.

Guy experienced abductions and encounters until he came in contact with Jesus Christ. Ever since, he has been helping others cope with their experiences in similar ways-looking towards the Lord instead of going to a psychiatrist.

After being bombarded with one-sided view points and over-commercialization, Guy’s viewpoint was certainly refreshing-whether or not we agreed.

So, next time you happen to be driving through New Mexico-make sure to stop in to Roswell. And don’t be afraid to talk with the locals-they are the real attraction.

Posted by Pierce at 06:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Approaching El Paso, everyone in the group continued to think this day would give us a rest because it has a reputation as Podunk town. Eventually we would find this is far from the case in a border town. The scene of the area as we drove down the highway produced a visual distinction between Mexico and America as each landscape lied on either side of our van. Even though some areas from each country proved to be completely different with America’s vast developments and Mexico’s great poverty, other areas of the two countries looked frighteningly similar in poverty. This was the first among many aesthetics that point to the fact that El Paso seems to live up to its name which means “Crossing Over” as it proves separate from America and in fact a part of Juarez, Mexico.

Beginning at the El Paso Museum of Art downtown the class began to explore paintings, sculptures, prints, and more that were created from a heavily influenced Mexican-American or El Paso perspective. Sculptures such as Frances Bagley’s The Portrait portrayed a womanly structure made of wire filled with rocks; a place with structured gates filled with pavement and construction. Directly adjacent to this was another sculpture called Border Patrol by Suzanne Klotz which stood about five feet tall. On one side, the statue pictured American flags and graves while its other side was of praying hands and Mexican icons. As I watched each student become more and more involved with the artwork and analyzing it, I grew to see how much art is necessary in life.

Next up we met Lounell Southard, a defense contractor, for a meal at the mess hall at Fort Bliss military base. Entering the base, we began to see more and more of its massive size; later we would discover that it was as big as Rhode Island. How can this belong or fit into the El Paso we had already seen? Mr. Harold and Lounell gave us a tour as we got our meal and told us many facts about Fort Bliss’ history. For instance, they discussed how Fort Bliss has trained every flyer in the world and the different benefits that soldiers get from living on the base. The base had every doctor, service, or product one could want. I began to wonder and feel that Fort Bliss fit into El Paso by not entering into El Paso for much of anything since the military had everything they needed separate from civilian interaction.

After eating in the mess hall, which felt much like a high school cafeteria that had mostly men, we visited the old Fort Bliss cavalry display as well as the Air Defense Artillery Museum. Gazing at each airplane, rocket, and tank on display, Mr. Harold gave us a brief synopsis of what each weapon did. The thought arrived in my mind that these were also pieces of art—but more accurately, these also came from man.

Slowly, we walked back to the van and drove to the Rancho Market for some interaction with civilians we had missed throughout the day. At this point, after driving through the city and knowing that the population is 82 percent Hispanic, the market’s demographic did not surprise me. Mostly everyone was Hispanic, and the whole market had Spanish as the primary language. This was the first time I felt as though I was no longer in America. One woman spoke of how she works in El Paso everyday to make more money and goes back to Juarez after work. Every day she crosses over from one country and culture to the other.

Our next stop was at G & R’s Mexican Restaurant. Lounell and Ray Southard, and Louie (their son) as well as Captian Kaji and his family joined us. I sat near the middle of the table and tried to get a bit from each end of the table. On one side, I heard Louie, a UTEP student, discuss what it has been like to grow up in El Paso. He told us how Juarez has had more deaths this year than the war in Iraq. “Why?” you might ask. Louie informed us that this was due to drug deals gone bad. On the other end of the table, we questioned Captain Kaji about what it was like to be from India and to serve in the American military. We also wanted him to answer the question we have asked of everyone across the country: What is it like to be an American? Captain Kaji responded to both questions with:

“I don’t know. I am still asking, after serving in the military twelve years, if I am an American... Even though I understand the thought process, it is still hard for me to know I do not receive promotions due to my race.”

Posted by Emily at 05:33 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Texas and pride. Those two words go together like steak and chili. Or rice and refried beans. But what exactly gives Texas that sense of pride? And more importantly, how does that play into being an American?

That was one of the things we set out to discover in San Antonio-home of the Alamo. Surrounded on all four sides by hotels, souvenir shops, and a Ripley’s Believe It or Not, the Alamo is the symbol for Texas pride.

In 1836, 162 Texans stood tall against Santa Anna’s Mexican army. They held down the Alamo for 13 days, fighting only for pride. They could have fled. Instead, they chose to die for Texas.

“Remember the Alamo” became the battle cry as Texas defeated Mexico and claimed their independence.

Of course, it’s important to remember that’s the story the Alamo tells us. It doesn’t mention how several Texans were possibly killed on the grounds outside the Alamo-running for their lives. And they don’t say anything about how slavery was a central issue in the conflict between abolitionist Mexico and slave-heavy Texas.

(We’ve seen several other glaring omissions on this trip as well-the lack of any Lewinski reference at the Clinton Library, and no details on Elvis’ death at Graceland.)

Regardless, the idealistic Alamo is huge in shaping Texas culture and pride. After talking to locals, many people pointed to culture and history as the reasoning behind their Texas-sized mentality. But one young man gave a particularly interesting answer.

Rashina talked to a proud Texan who explained to her that being a Texan is no different than being an American. The mentality is not Texas vs. America, he said, but rather Texas working as an extension of America.

This mentality is displayed no clearer than in the Texas state flag. The red, white, and blue theme is evident and prominent, but is also accompanied by a star-a lone star.

So, perhaps the Texas flag is not a symbol of cockiness and self-centeredness but rather a descriptive picture of the relationship Texas has with being American.

In the afternoon, we met up with former Belmont employee and Texas resident Matt Burchett who used a great analogy to describe states and their “reputations.” He said that states are all like a group of high school students-they each have different false identities and fronts that they like to play up.

For Texas, that identity is a big confident tough guy. He probably walks around in big boots, with his chest puffed out. He loves the thought of being independent and pretends not to need his parents.

But at heart, he still loves and needs them.

Posted by Pierce at 05:50 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

After a pretty late wakeup from everyone, we rushed over to the St. Bernard Community Center to serve the Ninth Ward community for a little bit. The Ninth Ward was one of the hardest hit, if not the hardest hit, area in New Orleans from Hurricane Katrina. Driving out there from the hotel, we passed a house after broken down house, empty, boarded up KFC’s and convenience stores, and quick cash-n-loan stores, all speaking of the tragedies of the past few years, telling us stories of a place forgotten by its own government, a place where the opportunities are simply not equal for them, yet a place where hope and love still thrive.

This seems to be one of the key themes I am learning about our country – that is, our capacity for our personal altruism and hope. Whether this altruism is real or false is irrelevant, because, you can really only look at a person’s actions and not into their minds or hearts. That is why I say perceived personal altruism – simply working a 9 to 5 to keep your head above water and food on the table for friends and family is more than enough; for others, it’s traveling to Thailand to stop human trafficking. These choices are much more an evidence of our class background and not dedication to humanity, a distinction that is beginning to give me clearer eyes as I navigate my path and look at other people.

I feel very fortunate to have met a new friend, Thomas, at the St. Bernard Community Center in the Ninth Ward. After handing me a Vitamin Water after a couple hours of work, he mumbled a mere, “Cheers, mate,” with a thick Scottish accent under that breath. I immediately wondered about the path he took to wind up at a makeshift building that calls itself a community center in one of the poorest areas of the country. “Love. Pure love,” he answered when I asked him what was one of the most uniting things about America. “I’m not religious or anything, but I tell you what, I sure know what love is. And I know that I love my own life more than nearly all of my friends.” This passion for wandering was cultivated at a young age as he spent his first sixteen years in a Scottish orphanage, the last 5 of those studying philosophy with local university professors. Since then, he has spent years traveling across Europe and the Americas. He is a full time chef at some local New Orleans restaurants and loves to talk about the adventures he has taken part in. After letting us know he appreciated our help and got exceptionally good vibes from our volunteer group, it was time to head to lunch at a local place he recommended in the French Quarter.

Once we made our way to the place, we found it was only 21+ and obviously did not fit the demographics of our group. We ran over to Café Du Monde for some beignets, then to a local joint for Po Boys and such (interesting for a guy who just went vegetarian a week ago). I’ve had some good company in this endeavor, my friend and fellow researcher, Rashina (a lifelong veggie)… We’re the only two on the trip and throughout our travels so far, we pretty much have had to cut out 95% of the menu from every restaurant we go to. Not difficult really, though. The company helps. And I feel great.

Drove over to Tulane University to shower in the student center (with permission of course)… I’m pretty sure that was the first shower any of us had since Friday evening… that’s a solid three days of sweat, grease, and body odor. Yum. Afterwards, we ventured back over the French Quarter and wandered for a bit, cancelled a Haunted History tour because we were all so beat. Came back and crashed early.

One of the most interesting things about the day was that it was similar to Memphis in that a mere three blocks from Bourbon Street were vacant lots and boarded up homes, complete with X’s marked on them leftover from Katrina. How many of these places exist in the world? I heard about a beach in Costa Rica, surrounded by miles of 8-foot-high fencing. At this beach, cruise ships drop off tourists for a day of fun, with gates on the fences locked up. As the cruise ships pull out from the bay each evening, the gates are unlocked and the locals comb the beach to eat the scraps of what the tourists leave over. How often do we miss all of the larger stories in the areas we visit? The possible consequences of how we travel? The people and spaces that exist outside of what the Chamber of Commerce wants us to see? There is where we find a hint of what it means to live in that area, embrace relationships with local people, and deepen our connection to that the place, its citizens, and eventually… ourselves.

Posted by Chris at 05:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Traveling in a foreign city is a difficult task on its own, but when you are traveling with eleven other people and you’re solely responsible for the day’s activities it can be quite daunting. As I sit in the back of our bus contemplating the day’s events Little Rock, I would like to think that I accomplished this task in to some extent.

While it’s still fresh on my mind, I can’t help but think about the evening worship service that we attended at Awareness Center International in the city. The music played during praise and worship was enough to evoke joy from the dullest congregation. At moments I questioned whether I was at church or a rock concert because of the energy, but the honesty in what the worship team was doing assured me that it shouldn’t be mistaken for a simple performance. One of the main things we all agreed on about the church was that it was clearly genuine and that people were very intentional about the type of community that they have developed. There were two separate parts of service where we stopped worship in order hug someone, and it was great because it reminded us of “what a real hug actually felt like,” according to someone in the group. Although there were moments that challenged us, we ultimately left service having observed a special type of community taking place there.

This reminds me of the community I found us building as we sat down to eat a meal at Kitchen Express early that day. In looking for the restaurant there were some concerns about the neighborhood that we were driving through because of the un-manicured lawns and boarded up homes, but Kitchen Express served as an oasis in the desert for us. Within minutes we were in line ordering the widest variety of soul food that most of us had ever seen: chicken (fried and baked), okra, macaroni and cheese, collard greens, banana pudding, and peach cobbler. And although the food looked as good as it tasted, the beauty of the moment was in our sharing of our food. We hadn’t even been together for three days yet, and we were already eating each other’s food and talking about our experiences from earlier that day. We briefly touched on Heifer International’s grand opening of its new educational building, and how we might apply our developing knowledge on social theory to understand its cultural significance in Little Rock. We also lighted on the Clinton Presidential Library, remarking how former President Clinton serves as an icon for Little Rock similar to how Elvis Presley and Graceland serve as icons for Memphis.

But I think that ultimately, the highlight of everyone’s day, especially mine, was our visit to the Central High School Museum and the actual school campus. There was so much to take in that several needed to take a break from time to time. The site does a great job on educating it’s patrons on why the Little Rock Nine of Central High School were so historically significant and also the importance of fighting for the rights of every marginalized group, and not just blacks. As I watched a video of Elizabeth Eckford walking to school while surrounded by an angry mob, I couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to be berated for simply wanting to have a better life situation. When we walked around the actual campus later, I think we all were overwhelmed by the contrast between the physical beauty of the campus and the dark story that still haunts its past, like a monster lurking stealthily still throughout the corridors.


Standing right in front of Central with flights of stairs winding up on each side of me, I tried to summon the emotion that Ernest, Terrence, Elizabeth and the rest must have felt that day, and it was bittersweet to realize that I might never experience an event that was so dangerous in my life. I can’t help but appreciate their courage, because they helped to make a way for myself and every other black student in America. I appreciate them because they were true pioneers, traveling each of those days in familiar territory that was made unfamiliar by the mask of hatred. They were Academic Pioneers. And as I sat with my group of colleagues on the balcony area of the building posing for a picture, I realized that we too are pioneers. We too will be traveling in sometimes unfamiliar territory. We probably won’t ever be in as much danger on this trip as the Little Rock Nine were back then, but we are ready to stand up for the things we believe in, like this trip, and more importantly because of such august precedents, we have hope. Hope. Above all, we decided that the city of Little Rock is conveying a message of hope, and we’ll take it with us along the way.

Posted by Cory at 05:46 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I awoke, as I had expected, in somewhat of a confused daze this morning… as I opened my eyes to a convex wall on one side and a closed curtain on the other, it took a few seconds to understand that this adventure had finally become actualized. A feeling of excitement simultaneously swept over and seeped into me, and as I lay attempting to embrace a feeling that I am sure to have for the next thirty-nine mornings, I suddenly felt familiarity replace the strange excitement I had awoken feeling. Then it hit me… the beginning of my adventure across an unexplored nation began with my hometown of twenty years…

The contradicting nature of this first stop is simultaneously interesting and frustrating. Having lived in Memphis, TN my entire life until coming to college, the idea of exploring a city whose traditions and structures already felt so intrinsic to me failed to initially satisfy my wanderlust. Nonetheless, the day was ours and mine and I knew that there were experiences to be had.

We started discovering Memphis at the famous and original Peabody Hotel, known for its marching ducks. For those of you unaware of this historical tourist attraction, the Peabody hotel marches five ducks along a red carpet to a somewhat ornate fountain each day at 11:00 a.m. Though I had experienced this strange and short-lived viewing multiple times, I eagerly walked with my other eleven colleagues into the hotel, up the stairs, and positioned myself up against the banister. And then we waited… As I glanced across the gathering of over the hundreds of tourists in the lobby – the conservatively dressed businessmen, the older couple whose hawaiin print t-shirts perfectly exemplified their ‘touristic’ intentions, and the young girl playing with the stuffed animal- they seemed eagerly patient, waiting for the chance to experience what their families or friends must have boasted about seeing in years past. As the ‘duckmaster’ stepped into the scene, the crowd silenced itself, awaiting instruction from the man with the walking staff. He began to recount a history of the duck march, using a bellowing tone of voice and pausing for dramatic effect so perfectly that I felt slightly nauseous. Finally the doors opened and five waddling ducks sprinted to the fountain in about five seconds flat. The audience began to applaud the event as the ducks jumped into the fountain, and immediately the expression on each student’s face around me changed from eager to disappointed. While the duck march embodied specific aspects of tourism that fully supported the archetypal tourist, a part of me felt satisfaction in simply Recognizing the construction of this tourist attraction that promoted itself through historic tradition yet displayed itself in a three-ring circus fashion.

After the Peabody we wandered over to Beale Street to define the Memphis that Memphis sells itself as. The group scattered itself among gift shops, voodoo stores, and conversations in the street. It was difficult for me to see the kitsch and conformity in the streets of my own town as I stepped across the pavement that my feet had already grown so familiar to. I did however, have a new experience as we walked into Blues City Café for Memphis BBQ. As the group sat in the nearly empty room of the restaurant detailing the deliciousness of their rack of ribs or catfish, I slowly attempted to savor the flavor of my salad and French fries… New Orleans has never been so close to home.


And then there was Graceland…

In my twenty years of being a Memphian I had refused to step foot into the tourist trap that is Graceland. And there I was, map in hand and headphones clicked on, being herded into the bus (that took us across the street…) As we were ‘politely’ pointed and directed through Elvis’ home I found myself being just as visually intrigued by the people who were there as by the jungle room or gold-record lined walls. There was such an interesting dichotomy of ‘tourist’ within Graceland – while we were examining the representation of Memphis through Graceland, there were some who were extremely emotional, some who felt nostalgia, and some who were only there because “it’s Graceland.” Once the tour concluded, we spent some time in the Multiple gift shops where we quickly realized that you could put Elvis’ face on ANYTHING.

As the day began to conclude we drove from the city of Memphis into the suburb of Germantown, utilizing the drive as an opportunity to visualize the segregation in housing and neighborhoods. As we neared Germantown my stomach tied itself into a huge knot. My two social circles were colliding in front of me and I had absolutely no control in the embarrassing pictures and jabs in jest. But my parents created an (as always) amazing full Indian meal and dessert to follow. The conversation focused around my parents’ histories and biographies as well as what Memphis meant to them.


As we drove back to the bus to unwind, I felt a sense of comfort and excitement that I had been longing for in the last two months finally hit me. I realized that while our first stop was Home and difficult to grasp with an unbiased perspective, hearing my parents recount their feelings about why they chose to make Memphis my home showed me that regardless of the pre-packaged an promoted image that all of the cities on our trip embody and perpetuate, there remains an untapped and more hopeful perspective that I soon hope to discover…

Posted by Rashina at 10:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)