Fast-Food Nation
To some, the word nationalism may trigger a sense of revolution, of leaders and politics, but to me, being American is like being a food lover.
We are taught to be American just like we are taught about what tastes good: through subconscious brainwashing. In classes and other processions, we rise to face the cloth that hangs above us all whether or not we feel anything in the ceremony. Over time, it becomes familiar, a custom of habit. Like microwavable frozen dinners. In high school, you have the choice to stand or sit through the pledge depending on which teacher you have, but most stand because its more efficient that way—the less you resist, the faster you’re able to get on with the rest of your day. I learned my allegiance to America before I even knew what it meant or how to spell the word: a-l-l-e-g-i-a-n-c-e. I explored the taste of gummy bears, fruit roll ups, chocolate chip granola bars, pudding, cinnabons, cookies, chips, breaded chicken nuggets and fish sticks, lots of ketchup, pb and j, pan pizzas, and kids meals from Mcdonalds before I knew what “healthy” was. In America, you learn the culture before you find yourself. When you have been repeating this gesture year after year since Kindergarten—it becomes embedded in your person. In fact, it becomes disrespectful to sit down during a pledge after a certain age, especially if you’re an adult fully taking advantage of American opportunities. It’s the same if you’ve never tried junk food.
Even after a person has figured out who he is and what he wants to do with his life, the taste of America lingers. Every expert says that the taste of junk food is fleeting and momentary, but our brains are pretty good at remembering. The morsels of food may have long been digested, but the taste buds on our tongue do not forget, and the scents remain. So we keep eating and promoting patriotism, wherever we are.
Because we still feel American. We still go to the Independence Day celebrations with the same gusto. I still wake up my siblings early in the morning and convince them to wear red-white-and-blue gear with me (might as well get some wear out of them) and ask my Dad to take us to the parade like old times. Afterwards we bbq in our backyards and pack our picnic blankets for the evening fireworks. And even after all these years, I haven’t forgotten the words to the childhood Yankee Doodle song and the so-called date that Columbus discovered America, even though I now know who really did and when. Much to my husband’s dislike, I love Paula Dean’s cooking and accent and old, western movies because that’s all I ever read about or was taught in class, and its what I know best. I followed American politics like my favorite soap opera on television, and we took elections seriously. I could go on with examples, but its pretty easy to follow: we do what feels good more often than what is right or healthy. And supporting your country feels yummy, most of the time.
On the other hand, I have found that we Americans have a love-hate relationship with our country. We hate our government, but love the land. We hate what they have done to clear the land, but we love building humungous houses and skyscrapers on it regardless. We complain about traffic jams, but don’t stop driving cars. We hate the destroyers of cultures and imposers of imperialism, but we love our history. We groan when we are taught to memorize the 50 states, but later we brag about all the places we have been. We hate on one President, but idolize another. We are proud of being American, but not proud of what America represents.
We eat chocolate cake, and then we run to the treadmill. Or go on a diet. We contradict ourselves, but we are human.
In the same way, that my relatives have come to love Canada and speak with a native accent and watch hockey every other night, my parents still love their homeland, the colors green and white, the food they grew up with, and the land, war-torn or not, was beautiful to them.
In the end, there’s nothing wrong with some Kentucky fried chicken or flag waving, as long as you don’t get carried away.
Author: Iqra Azhar
