It isn't something that someone of my political persuasion often admits, but I love this (er, that) country. I love the vast expanse of land and the way it changes as the miles play out in front of you. I love those changes, sometimes gradual and sometimes very sudden, from desert valley to high desert plateau, to mountains, to short grass prairie, to tall grass prairie (or, what would be tall grass prairie if it weren't all corn) to northern woods.
I love the people of America, even when they infuriate me. Edward Abbey wrote "I know my own nation the best. That's why I despise it the most. And know and love my own people too, the swine. I'm a patriot. A dangerous man." I respond, emotionally, to Americans and American politics in a way that I probably never will to Canadians and Canadian politics. That Steven Harper wants to ban gay marriage means very little to me. I have no connection to him, and I can't do anything about Canadian politics anyway. That a farmer in Nebraska felt so strongly about the issue as to put a large billboard in his field with the words "Outlaw Sodomy," however, affects me personally. I am hurt by his sentiment and embarrassed by his actions because we share a common bond.
I love the pride that Americans have in their own country, right down to the silly little flag stickers on the cars. After September 11, I began to count the number of American flags that I saw on the journey from the house in which I lived to the Texas Roadhouse, a bbq restaurant. The highest number that I ever counted along the 4.06 mile trip was 42. The only place that you're likely to see more waving and jingoistic display of a national flag is in the Occupied Territories. For so many people to care so much about one thing is really special.
I love the huge absurd ridiculosity of Vegas, and the tacky hokiness of Fort Cody. I love cowboy boots and tassely western wear. God help me, I even love McDonald's.
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