“Write one myth about the idea of America.” I was a few weeks into an American literature course at university when my professor unrolled a giant piece of paper across the classroom floor. I shifted in my seat, uncertain. A myth about America? I watched as my classmates began to write phrases like “home of the free” and “melting pot.” I didn’t think those were necessarily myths. Slowly, I rose from my seat, picked up a loose marker on the floor, and wrote the only thing that came to my mind: “American Dream.” My professor chuckled. “We all know it has parentheses,” she said, emphasizing the word “parentheses” by forming air quotations with her fingers. I sat back in my seat, wondering what she meant. What was the American Dream? Was it even a reality anymore?
I grew up with a deep appreciation for America. I understood its philosophy, valued its style of governance, and its vast opportunities. However, that question asked of me during my time at university still comes to mind. The American Dream has become the token phrase for material success. Could it be something more than that? Recently, I began remembering the old stories my grandmother would tell me about her father, Lou. The son of immigrants, he grew up on a small farm in Missouri as the youngest of nine boys. Being the youngest, Lou had fewer chores and responsibilities on the farm and was left to play by with his brother Joe, who was two years older. This “imagineering” with old machine parts and scraps would prove to be the best education he would ever get. By the time Lou was 7, both of his parents had died, and he ended up living with an older brother and his family in Kansas. When Lou was 15, he finished his schooling, receiving the equivalent of a sixth-grade education. He and Joe decided to return to Missouri and rent the land where they had grown up. That summer of plowing the fields and planting had no resemblance to the childhood freedom they once experienced. With little to their names, the two boys slept in the hayloft of the old barn and ate meals of pork and beans and canned peaches. They were excited when they heard the chicken crow in the morning—as it meant there would be an egg to eat. Lou and Joe planted only wheat that summer, but by the time the fall harvest came, they were without a crop. To this day, no one is sure whether it was a drought, insects, or lack of talent that caused the mishap. In Missouri, they first became orphans and now, broke wannabe farmers; they weren’t going to stick around for strike three.
