When I went in search of America I did so, not as a spectator, but rather as a traveler in search of understanding. In some ways I was an anthropologist searching for insights, and evidence of what America is now, and perhaps, even where it may be going.

My intention was not to observe America but rather to experience America; and that is exactly what I did. My documentation of America is one of the truest, and most authentic of all that have been done. I have shown Americans at their core of being who they are.

I lived with my subjects, I ate with my subjects. I drank with my subjects. I worshiped with my subjects - regardless of their denominations, or faith. And I delivered eulogies - three in all, for family members of my subjects. I engaged in a sacred sweat lodge ceremony to celebrate the Winter Solstice, as well as other Native rituals. And I have stood on the arena floors of rodeos, positioned physically closer to the horse and rider than even those working there. I did this in order to best understand the fury and intensity of what the rider, as well as the horse, experienced.

In the pages to follow my desire is to bring you as close as possible to the experiences that I experienced.

Preface

My entire life, at least those portions for which memory provides glimpses, has been one of a restless being. Whether it was excursions into the woods less than a mile from my house where, once within, the outside world was but a memory that remained ignored. Within this wooded area was a sanctuary filled with adventures that were always waiting for me.

There was a cabin, of sorts, built by some of the older kids in the neighborhood. It was constructed out of boards, and other wooden materials that had been scrounged from goodness knows where.  It was a place for these ‘older kids’ to smoke cigarettes, bring girls, and so on - although I can’t say that I witnessed any of that first hand.

At one point a young woman from China was looking for a place to live. To her I seemed to be someone in the know. Perhaps she didn’t realize that I was only eleven years old. In her very broken English she asked me if I knew of any places, so of course I said that I did, and I led her to the cabin in the woods. She was quite polite, as I recall, in turning down my offer for a place to stay.

During the youngest of my years Dad would pile mom, and me, into the yellow 1949 Oldsmobile and head off to a destination unknown. Dad’s thing was to drive until he was sufficiently lost, then beginning the adventure of finding his way back home. I still have the memories of my mother periodically unfolding the large roadmap that could never be refolded correctly. When unfolded, it was far larger than the space provided by the interior of the car. The trick was to unfold the map in its segments until the desired portion of the map was exposed, then refold it back to leave only the necessary portions visible.

This taught me the joy of adventure and exploration; of arriving in new lands, and unchartered territories. And at the ages of four through ten nearly everything fell into these categories. But just shy of my twelfth birthday Dad passed away, and so passed away the adventurous roadtrips. The seed, however, had been planted.

My adventurous spirit then turned to things much closer to home: the woods, the train tracks, and the Ohio River. By age twelve I was able to swim across the Ohio River, although most times I found one of the many wide boards that had washed up on shore. Where their journey along the river began, I had no idea of. For an extra thrill I would paddle my boards close the the back of passing barges trying to ride the wake. On the far side of the river, from B.A.B. (short for Bare-Ass-Beach) was Pittsburgh DeMoine Steel. I never really knew what they did there. But if my timing was right, I would reach the other side just in time for lunch. Workers from PDN would come to the water’s edge, open their neatly packed metal lunchboxes. These lunchboxes were usually narrow and long, painted black and had curved lids. Inside the curved lid was a place for their thermos, sometimes containing coffee, and in colder weather, soup. The men would talk, and I would listen; filling my imagination with  an abundance of stories that were far beyond my experiential years this far.

This was also the age that I learned how to ‘hop trains’. When the speed of the train was under a certain speed - essentially not much faster than I could run, I would visually pick an approaching car; my preference was a box car. As it drew closer I would begin to run, causing its approach to slow. As the ladder, at the end of each car, came within grabbing distance, I would latch onto it with both hands and hold on for dear life. Once my feet were suspended I would climb the ladder using only my hands until I was able to get my feet on a rung. Then I would ride the train for whatever distance I wanted - however, there was a caveat; If I rode too long, and the train had built its speed, there was no way to jump off. In that case I would ride it to the outskirts of the train yard, about eight miles away. Then I would wait for another train - one leaving the yard and headed in the opposite direction. Again, if the train was traveling too fast when I reached my destination… I rode it to the next train yard. There were days when I spent the entire day trying to get back home.

The Impetus

I was somewhere,  although memory has completely abandoned me on exactly - or even remotely where that somewhere was. My flashes of recollection show me in a mom and pop diner-style restaurant. Other flashes convince me that it was along the Blues Highway that runs north to south through the Mississippi Delta.

Regardless, the impetus is the same regardless of the physicality that I was in when it occurred. At the moment I am feeling like those who search incesently for the ‘true’ birthplace of Jesus, or the ‘true’ site of the crucifixion, as if by knowing, and visiting more than 2,000 years after the occurrences, one will better be able to comprehend what happened there and then.

The impetus was a news broadcast. The network, like the place itself, is as absent from my memory and holds an equal lack of importance. It was a panel discussion, comprised of supposed experts on the subjects being discussed. The discussion - a term that I use quite loosely, had all of the structure that one would find in a cock fight. 

By the end of this panel discussion the general consensus was that America is in the proverbial ‘shitter’. Americans are angry, and hate one another. Muslims want all Christians dead. And the environment is hopelessly irrecoverable, leaving our children, or possibly as late as our grandchildren with no air to breathe. The only hope is to move to Mars and live underground while ‘the experts’ spend the following 200 years, or more, re-terraforming the now dead planet.

My gut raged - as it does when barn-floor-debris presents itself. I found myself screaming, internally - and therefore quietly: “is this all that America is about?”

I paused for a moment. The voracity of my asking this question caused me to pause in my tracks - and ponder it. “I don’t know”, I responded. “I truly don’t know”

In the days, and weeks to follow I asked family members the very same question. When they had no answer - other than: “I suppose it is because that’s all we hear”, I moved on to friends, then strangers in search of an answer - or at least a glimpse of something other than the same.

It was then, October of 2015, that I decided to find the answer for myself - by traveling around the United States, by car.

I set to establish a clear, and concise plan for my travels. Where do I begin I asked myself? The answer was nowhere to be found. Then the scope of such an endeavor hit me! Where does one begin to find the answers? What route does one plan to take? How can such an endeavor even be structured?

To answer the first of these questions, there is yet another question that precedes it: Are there answers to be found? Or have I already learned the answers from family, friends, and strangers - not to mention the panel members who, so non-eloquently, shouted their opinions at one another on the panel discussion?

By the end of November it was decided by family members that we would spend Christmas, and New Years with in Austin, Texas. For me that was a sign that Austin was the place to begin this journey. I would begin on January 1, 2016 and travel, on and off, for one year in search of America.

Well, as great planning would have it, on the long drive to Austin, from Nashville, the ill-effects from a recent severe head trauma surfaced. Essentially my brain began to shut off in certain areas. I would become severely dizzy. Migraines were intense. And periodic awareness of where I was at any given moment - as in, within moments of entering into an HEB grocery store I suddenly had no idea where I was.

We continued on to Austin, and spent Christmas with the grandkids. A couple of days later, with my brain not improving, we deiced it was best to begin making the drive back to Nashville. For whatever reasons I suggested that we take the southern route home - through south Louisiana. 

It was decided that it was best if I didn’t drive. Much of the time I tried to sleep, but failed. Late that night we entered Louisiana, through Port Charles, and continued eastward. It was dark, and at times foggy. At one point I noticed ,out of my peripheral vision, a green sign to the right of me. Even though we passed it at 60 mph, the wording embedded itself into my memory, and with it a strong sense of something. 

As we continued the drive I tried to make sense of the word. It was unfamiliar to me. But what was familiar was the feeling now in my gut, saying that this is where I need to begin the journey, searching for America.

Several days after being home I began to research the wording that I had seen on that green sign that emerged from the darkness. I had written it down as best I could remember, as soon as we got home. Atchafalya was the word that I saw. It was as foreign a word as any could be. When I research it, however, I found that it was the Atchafalya River Basin, in south Louisiana. In all of my research the only thing that I knew was that, environmentally, this was a place of importance.

In hindsight environmental issues really had nothing to do with the answers I was searching for, but my gut insisted that this was the place to begin. As it turned out this is the heart of the Cajun Culture, and one of the most experiential areas of my entire journey.