It is hard to find diction when reflecting upon the visual majesty across our country. Here I sit on Long Island. My favorite sight in the world is its rocky north shore beaches. I love it. I can see those beaches every day and if time permits I most certainly will. 

Here, the words flow freely into my brain. The moving tides create different experiences, and though guessable, hold surprises for those who let them. My brain latches onto the first day the beach appears ready for visitors after a long winter. The slight fear but large excitement a child has when jellyfish go by. The desolate peace in winter and the invigorating population in summer. I love writing my name in the sand. For a small moment the beach knows my presence. The world will discard my writing in a short time and eventually the beach will exist past my hour, but for a moment I’m etched into sand. 

Reaching out into our glorious nation, every mile comes with real wonder but the memory is more dreamy. I’ve only realized these places for short minutes, but those minutes last in my brain longer than any particular moment in places near home. The dreaminess is what bothers me. It’s all kind of vague. Who knows if what I remember is exactly what I saw? On Long Island, I can stop by again and check. 3,000 miles away? The dreams will have to suffice. 

Getting a little deeper, I have no connection to these locations. Does that lack of connection beyond a ride-through mean I see the geography and architecture for what it is free of other memories’ clouds? Or do those clouds I possess on Long Island help paint the picture of what a place really is? I can never look at a bar near Binghamton University and only see the bricks. In California the bricks are my only grasp…

Either way here’s what I remember:

The first time I drove we notably rode through Washington, St. Louis, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona & California. In Washington, our American philosophy and common knowledge overwhelm. Lincoln, Jefferson, and every other monument feel like a literalization of characteristically American thoughts. The books-worth of America I’ve gone through, both myth and philosophy, are all standing in front of me.

Those unique thoughts somehow made their way down to Mississippi, the most off-putting of our voyages. Large houses with big windows, mountains of sausage and men crowded around a TV watching football games between schools I’ve never considered. These people, despite their different heritage, are as American as you and I. The same flag on buildings, the same wars taught in schools.

In St. Louis, the Jazz musicians, the brick buildings and the famous arch in front of Busch Stadium left a lasting effect. What a beautiful city. I’ll never forget the children joining in, playing their instruments with grown men towering over them. The Gateway Arch, a structure I painted at Berry Hill Elementary, stands next to a stadium where the World Series has been won and lost, and ball players bound for Cooperstown started their careers. Here’s where we crossed the Mississippi, something I probably would have noted if the Arch’s beauty didn’t take center stage.

I remember driving into Texas. There was seemingly nothing for miles, then blinking red lights all round us. I never learned the flashing warm red’s purpose, but it felt like a close encounter of the third kind. The mountains in New Mexico change color from white to red to brown, unreal to someone from an Island out east. Arizona was more desolate. Staring into the desert, I felt as if only isolation and desperation could lie ahead. 

Then there’s California. Seemingly the whole world is present in California. Staring down from Mulholland Dr. or moving through the hills as you head north, it’s hard to argue everybody shouldn’t be here. Standing in one of California’s cities one feels the diversity of those who came north, south, east or west in search of the American Dream. Crazy to think it was large Mexican ranches a short few centuries ago, then a city where Casablanca was filmed almost a single century ago.

Heading back east, I understood how some may have become convinced Utah was their holy land. The canyons and mountains can’t be anything but divine intervention. Sheer survival must have felt like a gift from God.

I’ve seen more of this great nation than most, but still have entire regions to check off the list. I said I have no connection to these places, and yet in truth, they are all a part of home. Some of what I remember is true, other parts maybe not, but what I really know is this: We are lucky to reside in this incredible country, built upon enlightenment notions and audacious dreams. I love its history of ardent realization, as much as its bright cities and expansive vistas. None of it’s perfect, and yet it’s extraordinary. Even when you’re on one route, the journey is rarely a straight line and you’ve got to keep your eyes and mind open to stay alive. 

On the road and in my heart, I keep faith our Nation’s infrastructure will sustain me and its uniting principles will endure. I commit to doing my part to uphold them. It’s the closest thing to a religion I have. 

May God Bless America.