Notes on Cutting Across the Country

Ominous Storm Clouds gathered over West Virginia as I made my way westward two weeks ago—my Photo.

This coming Saturday morning, I will rise early, pack my car, and drive eastward towards home. I will cut back through all the lonely pastures and crops, dying rustbelt towns and bustling cities, crowded highways and not-so-crowded highways to return to Baltimore.

I frequently travel across the United States alone, which includes heading to and from California, too. I’ve gotten to know the best (and worst) places to stop on the countless highways and side roads. As a result of these trips, I feel I’ve gotten to know most of the U.S. on a pretty intimate level, as I have found myself ensconced in various parts of the country as an outsider traveling in and through it, getting to know strangers from different states, and learning some of their stories and details about their lives. (I’ve also traveled up and down the coast of California numerous times, as well as the Northeast Corridor more times than I can count.)

On a side note, when I travel from the East Coast to the Midwest and up to Maine, I bring my trusty little companion: Daisy. She’s my three-year-old Welsh corgi, who sits in a safety hammock in the back of my car while I drive over a thousand miles one way when I head to Kansas. (I leave my other low-rider beasts — Walwynn, the other Welsh corgi and her brother, and Phineas, the wild and unpredictable Basset Hound, at home.)

Lovely Daisy relishing her time in a hotel near the Capitol in Jefferson City, Missouri—my photo.

As for traveling back and forth from the East Coast to the West Coast, one thing stands out to me about the country: there is a lot of poverty here, much of which remains hidden to many Americans, buried in the simulacra of slick advertisements and glass buildings in major cities, the Internet (viz. social media platforms), and, finally, denial. Whether it’s in the desolate areas of Arizona or New Mexico, up the coast of California, tucked away from the wealth of San Francisco and Los Angeles, hidden amongst the heavily wooded mountain towns of West Virginia, or lodged along the scraggly coast of Maine, there are a whole lot of folks in this country who struggle to get by (I know this fact all too well in Baltimore, where just a few blocks away from where I live, white folks there struggle to get their daily fix when begging on the main highways that are used to enter the city). As for being on the road, recently, I recall sitting and smoking in my car at a 7-11 in West Virginia, while two young fathers, who were also smoking, sat in their rusted cars, yucking it up, where they had parked right in front of the store. One of them had four young kids and a baby boy, whom he bounced up and down on his skinny, jean-covered lap. The other man, who had a rather large belly and long, frizzy beard, had three young children. When I went into the convenience store to buy a snack, the four young children of the man with the baby — all blonde-headed little wispy girls — also got out of his car. When I exited the store, they insisted on opening the door for me. One of the girls enthusiastically squealed with a strong West Virginian accent, “I love your dress!”

I smiled at their beaming grins and exited. As I drove away, I wondered what sort of futures they would have, being that they are growing up so poor in rural West Virginia. (I hope they find their way to whatever makes them happy and that they flourish in their adult lives.)

It makes me realize that it’s a privilege to be able to criss-cross this vast country, dipping in and out of communities of all kinds. I’m doing it tomorrow, and I’ll be doing it again soon, heading up to the Northeast to visit friends in Maine. (I used to do it when I wrote extensively about the student loan debt crisis, meeting hundreds upon hundreds of people, struggling with student loan debt. Now I do it for my own leisure and personal interest.)

A new dangerous concern arises when I prepare for these trips. It’s related to what’s known as “pretrauma” to climate change in the future — justified worries about running into severe, unexpected weather while on the road, as an exposed, vulnerable driver, and with no place to go, as I travel on stretch after stretch of endless pavement. For example, on my way here, I had to pull over three times due to rain that was so blinding I couldn’t see beyond my windshield; the pavement had disappeared into what appeared to be small lakes. I also worried about sudden tornadic activity, since storms of this nature are now all too common. So, today, my mind finds itself preoccupied with potential natural disasters of inordinately enormous scope.

Alas, tomorrow awaits me, as do the hundreds of miles of pavement I must cross. I’ll find my way to Lexington, Kentucky, tomorrow night. Then after that, I’ll make my way back to the East Coast.

Wish me luck!