Time after time since its inception, Americans have figured out a way to move forward, sometimes in sprints and sometimes in ugly lurches, but always, relentlessly, forward. I do believe that America, on balance, has made the world a better place, and I’m grateful to be an American citizen.
While I love my country, I am never going to be one of those chest-pounding guys chanting “U-S-A!” I think of America as the high school kid who has everything: good looks, rich parents, the best car. Kids like that are always better received when they are humble, modest, and share with others. Sometimes we act like that and sometimes we act the way those kids more commonly act: like douchebags. If I had three wishes for my country, they would be these: keep fighting, keep moving forward, and don’t act like a douchebag.
Meghan:
Stephie and I sit on the couch next to Martha and look at old photo albums. Martha shows me pictures from when she and Michael were younger, when they got married, when they lived in New York City. They both have ’90s haircuts and big smiles in all the pictures. Martha quips that she wished she had not worn long white satin gloves with her wedding dress, and comments on pictures of the guests at the wedding.
Michael and Martha are an adorable couple and have built an impressive life together. I don’t know Martha very well but I like her energy. She has a sarcastic sense of humor and seems confident in herself. We talk a little politics and I end up in a fit of laughter because apparently her brother knows Frank Luntz, the Republican pollster, and she shares some personal stories about him, which are pretty funny. We have a beer, look at more photos, and all get a little tired.
I’m exhausted, we say good night, I go to bed. I unpack in Michael’s basement, put my pajamas on, and call my mother to let her know I got to Michael’s house safely.
“Now, be respectful in Michael’s home. Remember you’re a guest,” she says. Pretty much the same advice she used to give me in middle school about visiting people’s houses. For the first time on the entire trip, I feel a hell of a lot younger than Michael and weirdly out of place. As much as I do not want it to, it feels awkward. Michael and Martha’s house feels very real and lived in; it is also huge and picturesque, which goes along quite well with the picture-perfect-family-man image I already have of Michael. His house, wife, and children could be cast in any movie or television show about a “happy American family.” Ironically or not, it is also the first time I really see Michael as a full-grown adult and family man. This house is no joke. His wife is no joke. His kids are no joke. I can see how it must be difficult for him to leave it to travel so often. I’m just hoping I can make it through the next day without offending Martha and Michael’s children.
In the morning I wake up around nine o’clock when I hear people walking around upstairs. I make my way up the stairs from the
basement to the kitchen, still bleary-eyed, and say hello to everyone, still in my pajamas . . . and I feel like I’m doing the walk of shame. Martha is chipper standing in the kitchen in a baseball T-shirt and jeans, and asks me if I want breakfast. Once again I feel like I am at a sleepover in middle school and I got up before my friends, to end up having a somewhat awkward conversation with my friend’s mom.
We all spend the morning going on a hike through “the wilds of Connecticut,” as Michael calls it, with Martha, Michael, Stephie, and Cousin John, after which we take everyone for a ride down the street in the RV and pick up his daughter from summer camp. The kids have a great time in the RV. Michael’s son, Elijah, climbs to the perch area above the front seat, where Michael has been known to nap, to explore the view from the top of the RV. Ruthie bounces around on the back bed. I can’t believe these kids are having such a great time just jumping around in this extremely disgusting RV, but it’s sweet to see just the same.
Michael:
Tonight Martha is throwing us a welcome home party with our local friends. These are all people we’ve met since moving to Connecticut almost nine years ago. They’re pretty much like us: couples in their thirties and forties with kids, mostly Democrats (the parents, not the kids). Also, some friends of ours from England happen to be in the area and will be stopping by too. I’ve been looking forward to the party as a way to officially wind up the trip and also as a counterpoint to the Fourth of July celebration in Prescott that kicked us off. Sadly, at my party there will be no semiautomatic assault rifles. Maybe we’ll watch some PBS instead.
Martha pulls me aside as she’s making guacamole to warn me that some of our guests have been saying they can’t wait to corner Meghan about various Republican policies with which they disagree. Martha has told them to back off, that this is a party, not a policy discussion, but she’s still worried that people are going to get some Bud Lights in their systems and it’s going to become a yuppie throw-down.
“Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’m sure nobody’s going to be mean.”
I am not sure of that at all.
My friends are all lovely people, but I worry that the Republican stereotype of Democrats might be true. Maybe we
are
all strident, holier-than-thou elitists. Maybe we
do
look down at our noses at our less urbane Republican compatriots out there in the hinterlands. I
know
some of us do. But hasn’t it always been like this? Even in Revolutionary times, didn’t the Boston urbanites look askance at Ethan Allen and his Green Mountain Boys from the backwoods of Vermont?
This is part of the problem with our country, though. It’s so big, and we have so little exposure to each other beyond what we see on television, that it’s easy to start pigeonholing our fellow Americans as somehow different than we are. For whatever reason, people are always seeking to differentiate themselves from each other. There is no group too small for us to do this with: Mets fans vs. Yankees fans, “tastes great” vs. “less filling.” It never ends. Much of it is good-hearted, yes, but when it comes to Republican vs. Democrat, it feels increasingly less so. That’s why we did this trip in the first place, and if my friends are going to show up at my house and be dicks to Meghan, I feel like the whole trip will have been for naught.
Our friends Matthew and Jessica arrive first. They’re the Brits. Well, technically, she’s American, but she married Matthew ten years ago and has been living abroad ever since. She’s even developed that Madonna thing where she has a British lilt to her voice, so I will consider her a Brit. We’ve known them for years, and I love them both. Matthew is a tattooed television director, Jessica a stay-at-home mom with a graduate degree in American studies. They live in a comfortable but creaky townhouse on the south side of London, and every summer they come to the States to summer at an old beach house her family has had since the thirties.
I’m curious to hear about the British National Health Service, a single-payer system, which has become a bogeyman here in the United States. The Republicans routinely point to Canada and England
as examples of the path on which Obamacare is leading us, and never in a complimentary fashion. They never say, for example, “Obamacare will make our health care system like England’s! And it will be great! Cucumber sandwiches for everybody!”
Whether or not we are ultimately headed for a single-payer system I have no idea, but I am curious to hear what Jessica’s experience with it is like, since she’s dealt with both the American and British systems.
To the disappointment of my liberal heart, Jessica is quite critical of the NHS. She says, “The advantage of always having health care available is balanced with the frustration that if you need something taken care of that isn’t life threatening, doctors and surgeons are happy to let you wait months and months, maybe even a few years to have it taken care of.”
Damn it! This is exactly the argument that Republicans make all the time. She’s my friend: she’s supposed to automatically agree with my opinion. Isn’t that what friends do? I’m very disappointed in her, very disappointed indeed, the damned Tory!
On the other hand, I’ve done some acting work in Canada and often ask people about their experience with a single-payer system. Although they complain about certain aspects, it seems like, for the most part, they are satisfied with their system. Consider this: no Canadian ever goes bankrupt when they get sick. If a Canadian requires chemotherapy or a heart operation, they never have to mortgage their home or deplete their entire life savings to pay for it. They never have to beg their church congregations for help. Here’s what they do: they go to the doctor and get their treatment.
Canadians pay higher taxes for this privilege but that seems like a fair trade-off to me. I would much rather pay an additional few percentage points in taxes for the peace of mind that comes from knowing my health care is not linked to my job, and that my kids will be covered if they’re ever injured or ill. Despite the hysteria waged by a certain, nameless Republican woman whose name rhymes with Tara Malin, Canada has no death panels, although if
you hang around enough screaming Canucks fans during hockey season, you may wish they did.
I am not going to tell Meghan about Jessica’s criticism of the British National Health Service because I do not want her to feel vindicated.
Meghan:
I walk outside with Stephie to the back lawn where the BBQ is. We help Martha hang up a string of outdoor lights. Martha hands me a “baby Bud Light,” which is literally a small half-can of Bud Light. I laugh and tell her, “It will probably take about eight of these to feel anything.” She doesn’t really laugh and I feel like a jerk for making fun of baby beers. I mean, the woman went out and especially got me Bud Light because Michael clearly told her I like them.
Slowly people filter into Michael’s backyard, which sits on top of a sprawling grassy hill. His house has a large white deck wrapped around it, and there is a significantly large grill, and flags strewn everywhere. It looks like Martha decorated for the Fourth of July, which I think is really sweet. Stephie and I sort of huddle together and I flirt with Cousin John because he is the only single man at the party and probably within a radius of thirty miles, and of course because he is my Gumdrop. Michael keeps coming around and asking us “if we’re doing okay” and to “seriously go over to the table and try the food.” It’s comical. I am reverted right back to my childhood when my parents would throw giant parties in Sedona and there was a kid’s table and a kid’s area that we were always quarantined to. I cannot help it, everyone is nice and pleasant, but a great deal older than I am. There is a weird film of tension permeating the entire party, and Stephie, Cousin John, and I look like a trio whose car broke down near Michael’s house and ended up getting invited for dinner. We stick out like a sore thumb. That being said, Michael’s friends seem pretty curious about the book and me.
“So, how did you guys
actually
meet and come up with the idea for the book?” asks one woman. “I mean, I’ve known Michael and
Martha for a
long
time, and I’m sorry, I just don’t get the concept for this . . . project? Book?”
I try to explain to her the concept for the project and Stephie helps by interjecting here and there. Basically the woman looks at me like I am some girl who has taken her good friend’s husband out for a joy ride in America, complete with strippers and guns. Which is pretty much exactly what I am. Another guy approaches us and is a lot warmer.
“Listen, I’m a Democrat, okay,” he says. “But I wish we would all find more common ground in politics.” I tell him that was the point of this project, a social experiment to see if two different people, from two completely different walks of life and perspectives, can find common ground. I am pleased to report back that we did and that means anyone can.
Before too long, the alcohol starts flowing and everyone seems to loosen up a little bit. A fire pit is lit and eventually s’mores are burned at the ends of long sticks. The only “incident” happens when one random lady who had too much wine approaches me and insists that she used to be a fan of my father’s, but “he sold his soul to Washington, DC.” I love it when people say crap like that to me, to my face. Like they’ve been waiting their entire life for me to walk into it so they can tell John McCain’s offspring what they really think of him. I answer it as best I can. By which I mean I give her a bitchy response and she walks off. I look over at Stephie and she rolls her eyes in absolute horror at the woman. Nermal has turned into a fantastic wingman.
Unfortunately, people say things like that to me more often than not. I have no idea where people’s manners go, but I would never go up to anyone, even if I hated the air that a member of their family breathed, and say anything nasty about their father, brother, whatever. There’s something about coming from such a public family that people feel like nothing’s private and every opinion deserves to be heard. There is a weird sense of entitlement people sometimes feel, and they somehow use that situation to get off their
chest the things they think in their living room while watching cable news. It does not bother me as much as it once did, but it is not a pleasant experience.
This same woman joins a group I am talking to later and goes on to say that what America really needs is a dictatorship to rule over everything. My only answer is, “Are you actually kidding me with this right now?” I am a few baby beers in and I cannot even pretend to feign interest in talking with a stranger about why she believes America needs a giant dictator. It’s comical. It’s pretty much the typical thing I would imagine an out-of-touch liberal to wax poetic about at a party. Stephie once again looks confused and horrified, and as soon as the woman walks away Stephie whispers, “Ohh, no, no, no. I wanted to stop and tell her, ‘If you know one thing about Meghan McCain, you will know Meghan McCain will not respond well to being told America needs a dictator to control the country. ’” I love Stephie.