#22 American Archipelago
August 2023 | West Chester, Pennsylvania
This country runs on gas; it abides by inaccessibility. I traded in my freedom for a car and they are not the same thing. I am lucky to have one – grateful even – for the mobility it provides, but I am also frustrated that this country necessitates it. I drive to the grocery store, then to the shopping plaza. If I want to walk, I drive to a park. Or go downtown, where there are five streets where pedestrians amble, no more. Food, clothing, and recreation in one place? Forget it.
Barely four months and I am sick of it. Sick of the way the suburbs were designed so that markets and pharmacies and residences are not allowed to be built in the same zones. So that every household would need at least one, two, three cars.
And what big cars they are! Sleek and shiny metal cages on wheels. The bigger they are, the better you are. Their chrome finishes and luxurious leather interiors are a calling card to your success. They take up space, too much of it, so that you can feel big.
Dating? Forget that too. Or at least, forget the way you knew it. Forget meeting people organically, through friends, at a bar, in the park. That was Armenia. This is America. Unless you can get yourself to a city – to a walkable city – you are alone. You are an island with stretches of sea separating you from everyone else, more little islands in one big archipelago. The distances are too far to swim, and the boat costs money – cars cost money.
Life back with the parents is a life returned to the womb. And when you do try to date, you find that, along with the freedom, you’ve forfeited your privacy. If you’re leaving the house and taking the car, they’ll want to know where you’re going, what you’re doing. And then there’s the safety. You take the car and drive to meet your date at a public spot where you’re less likely to get kidnapped or raped. You can’t drink, unless you think you might stay the night. Or get a ride there, and Uber back. In your mind where you once saw the city as your playground, there is only the logistics of safety.
You attach yourself to people, to men who like to disappear. Sometimes with warning, most times with none. A stream of conversation that drips to a halt as the faucet turns itself off. You miss meeting new people, exchanging new ideas. You miss movement. Water is meant to move. Now you wade through the stillness.
People disappear, and I recede further into myself. I climbed into my car today, clicked the lock shut, and screamed and screamed. I spent the entire week glued to my phone, wading through slow-moving streams, waiting for messages, waiting for the leasing agent to call me back so I could apply for that apartment in DC, to where I’m supposed to move, to where I’m supposed to escape.
Even in my free time, I do not feel free. I am chained to my thoughts, to the car, to this country. I sat at the steering wheel and imagined what I might look like if a car ran me over. Tire marks indented into my skin, across my face, like a cartoon. Give your life over to cars, literally.
I sat at the steering wheel and thought about how I wanted to disappear. Shouldn’t I get to disappear too?
If you’d like to go back and read my past musings and meltdowns, hit this link.