An Interview with Myself, Part 1
Because America is the land where anything is possible, and “FAQs” is just too boring of a title
Last week, I sat down with myself to learn more about A Year in America. I asked all my hard-hitting questions — and insisted on answers. Here’s what I found out.
What is A Year in America?
It’s a project I started planning in 2017 and am still working on.
In 2018 and 2019, I traveled to every part of the U.S., interviewing all sorts of people. Every day, I took notes on anything I saw or heard that was interesting, slowly creating a snapshot of modern America. I took a lot of photos too.
I’m now in “part two” of the project. I’m combing through the material I gathered and weaving creative non-fiction stories out of the most memorable, meaningful, and revealing strands.
-
What was your intent for the project?
Borrowing language from John Steinbeck, I wanted to get reacquainted with a country that, increasingly, I felt I no longer knew.
In 1962, Steinbeck did a road trip around the country, which formed the basis for his book Travels with Charley: In Search of America. While his situation was much different than mine - namely, he was a 58-year-old, white, male author already famous for his critiques and writings about the U.S., while I was, well, not - our motivations were quite similar. As he writes, “So, it was that I determined to look again, to try to rediscover this monster land. Otherwise, in writing, I could not tell the small diagnostic truths which are the foundations of the larger truth.”
I wanted to chat with a man named Stan who sat on his porch in Mobile fanning himself in the morning heat while his tiny dog yipped at his feet; experience an average Tuesday afternoon in Kona alongside a local instead of by a pool with other sun-baked tourists; find out how a shy lobsterman outside Boston could surprise me with his stories; taste grits fresh from the pan in Savannah and cherries straight from the tree in Michigan; hike to a different waterfall every month, gauging each region’s self-awareness about how dramatic their mountains really were; find out whether drivers in Miami were different than those in Boston or L.A.; notice everyday details of our towns, cities, countrysides, and open spaces that reveal fundamental truths while never making prime time news.
In other words, I wanted a clearer view of “us.” Was it the dumpster fire out there that we kept hearing it was? Or was it a different story once you pushed the headlines and algorithms aside, a story where grace, nuance, generosity, optimism, and common ground could still easily be found? Were both true? Or maybe neither frame was quite right. While it was too late to discover any new land masses or trade routes, the collective reality in modern America suddenly seemed weird enough to merit an expedition. And while it would be an expedition of one, “led” by me - an unsponsored, unknown, inexperienced, brave-but-also-somehow-shy, wannabe explorer with only her doodle to take orders and patrol the perimeter at each stop, I wasn’t about to miss what I considered to be the chance of a lifetime. My intent: to venture bravely, observe open-heartedly, listen actively, and record diligently, thereby cracking open and deepening my sense of who we are as a country, and collecting some of those small diagnostic truths. Also, I wanted to have some amazing adventures in the process.
In case this is feeling just a bit too saccharine for you, rest assured: I wasn’t looking for feel-good stories. Or, rather, I wasn’t only looking for those. I would cast a wide net and pull in everything that crossed my path, unfiltered.* The mixture of what I caught would be as interesting as the stories themselves. What would I see? What would happen? What was it really like out there?
I wanted to go out and see.
*Of course, even “unfiltered” experiences are still filtered to some degree, given how the world around you responds to your gender, race, faith, attractiveness, age, socioeconomic level, language, accent, connections, etc. But my hope was to allow chance to play as big a role as possible, and to be ready to consider the difficult truths I stumbled across as much as the inspiring ones.
Note: I write about my reasons for going in more depth here [link to 5 Reasons].
-
Who are you?
My name is Laurel. I live in San Francisco, so I’m mandated to tell you up front that I’m a Pisces.
I grew up in Ouray, a tiny town in southwestern Colorado. It’s a place with dirt roads, no stop lights, and mind-blowingly beautiful mountains. So beautiful, in fact, its nickname is “Switzerland of America.” This was a favorite fun fact, along with “elevation = 7,792 feet” and “population = 800.” During the bustling summers, I worked at a small B&B, The Damn Yankee Country Inn, cleaning rooms, folding towels, serving breakfast, and checking in guests, as well as at the Ouray Visitor’s Center, which gave me the opportunity to tell these fun facts to tourists at least ten times a day, for years, something I delighted in. It’s fun to feel special, of course — that you’re able to “wow” just by telling truths about something you love. I consistently disappoint my therapist by being unable to come up with any childhood problems to analyze, but the truth is that growing up in Ouray was paradise.
My dad was an electrician and my mom a massage therapist (as well as my high school biology teacher…it was a small town). They were both hard-working and talented at what they did — but they made it clear that, as the old cliché goes, they worked to live rather than lived to work. Life, ultimately, was for fun, family, discovery, and adventure. So. Much. Adventure. Any weekend that my sisters and I didn’t have a basketball, volleyball, or soccer game, Mom and Dad would throw us in the old bronco or 4WD van and take us rafting, backpacking, mountain biking, camping, hiking, skiing, windsurfing, or rock climbing. Through those adventures, my sisters and I inadvertently learned to love our bodies (and minds) for what they allowed us to do and experience, rather than for how they looked. I would have never been able to articulate this at the time but, looking back now, I realize what a special gift that was. It instilled a quiet confidence in us alongside a passion for exploring. Between those family expeditions and an obsession with reading, particularly adventure books, I couldn’t wait to explore more of the world.
“So…what are you? Where are you from?” In the ‘90s and ‘00s, before it became clear what a loaded question this can be, strangers asked me this quite often. Honestly, I kinda loved it. Usually they seemed to be asking because they couldn’t quite place me, not to imply that I didn’t belong. I loved the idea of being a little bit mysterious, hard to label as just one thing. Out of curiosity and for my own entertainment, I’d usually make them guess. I’ve heard everything from Egyptian, to Eastern European, to Native American, to “the future of America,” as one creepy old man wearing shorts with lots of tiny whales on them once said to me at a BBQ in Maine. (“You’re mixed? Well, if the future of America looks like you, count me in.” Ummmm…thank you?) For what it’s worth, I’m an all-American mix of Mexican, Spanish, British, German, and Polish.
The pleasure I derived from being asked this reveals one of my most dominant characteristics: I hate being put in a box, labeled as “just” X, Y, or Z. Yes, yes, I know nobody would say, “Well, I love that!” I take it to the extreme though. Much of my life has been defined by trying to prove, usually at the time unconsciously so, that most labels are part of false dichotomies. Just so you know, I’m actually this and that. “Oh, you think I’m good at three-pointers? Well, let me show you how good I’m at doing a smokey eye.” “Yes, I’ll be on the Knowledge Bowl team — but only if I can wear my homecoming crown at tournaments.” “Can you pass that Seventeen over to me? I’m finished with this month’s Astronomy.” In a small town, this break-down-labels-by-doing-everything approach is more doable than in most places. But, in life more generally, it’s exhausting. And, arguably, annoying. I’ve also realized that, ironically, by always reacting to a label, whether explicit or implicit, I’m indirectly being defined and controlled by it. (I guess I do have something for my therapist to dig into). As an adult, this tendency has shown up most clearly in my work life, with me bristling at job titles and role descriptions that always seem infuriatingly limiting to me. To all of the managers I’ve ever known: I’m sorry. What a nightmare I was.
All of this is to say that I’m an adventure-loving Indiana Jones-wannabe who reflexively challenges labels and narratives that I consider overly simplistic, outdated, or limiting. Once you understand that, it becomes pretty clear how A Year in America came to be.
I now live in San Francisco with a New England transplant who happens to be the funniest person on the planet and who I get to call my husband, along with our two floofs, Teddy and Ella. College brought me out to the Bay Area and, with the exception of a two-year stint in NYC, I’ve lived here ever since. I studied cultural psychology and international relations in college, which was my first formal foray into exploring how people think and relate to one another. So far my career has been a pivoter’s dream (or maybe just a pinball machine’s?), with chapters as an innovation strategy consultant, a brand strategist, a creative strategist, an event designer and planner, a design program manager, and a communication design creative director. I’m now a writer and photographer, working on A Year in America and developing new photography series as part of my fine art practice.
-
Who is Ella?
Ella is my dog. She’s a goldendoodle obsessed with hunting lizards, gobbling cheddar cheese, and pretending she’s a wood-chipper. She can decimate a two-foot stick into tiny pieces in under three seconds.
She basically comes with two modes: bouncy bunny rabbit who is high on life, and world-weary old sailor who frequently groans and sticks her head under the bed when you won’t…Just. Turn. OFF. THE. LIGHT. When she’s in old sailor mode, you’ll often find her near a window or ledge, looking toward the horizon for danger stoically, head held high and body motionless. If given the chance and vocal cords, she would be an amazing addition to The Night’s Watch, solemnly whispering “Winter is coming” at the end of every scene from the top of The Wall.
Ella was my sole continuous companion during my travels. I couldn’t have done it without her. That might be a funny thing to say about a creature who had no concept of what we were actually doing, but having another sentient being with curious eyes, protective instincts, and a loving, full heart alongside me on those long stretches of empty road made all the difference. She is pure love.
-
Who is Luna?
“Luna” is my pseudonym in the stories I write and share here.
While the name is made up, the stories are not. They’re creative non-fiction, based on the interviews, observations, and experiences I had while on the road.
-
Why didn’t you just use your own name?
I found that writing in the third person enabled me to write these stories in a style that felt more natural, authentic, and interesting. I used the name Luna because I’ve always liked it, and because writing in the third person with my own name just felt too weird, like I was a deranged king.
To continue reading, go here.