I Am A Bad American

Yesterday I was purposefully having coffee with two artists and we were talking about why they made ceramic work.  One made because of utility, the utility of the ware made her meaningfully engaged with others in helping them live more fruitfully.  The other made almost as a cry for legitimacy, “I am trying to push as much of me out there that says, “I was here!”” she said through the tears that ran down her cheeks at the raw sincerity of personal exposure she was allowing us to be a part of.  We laughed and talked and lived in community.  At one point one of the artist said that social media made her feel like a bad American.  But she is not a bad American.  In fact she is a darn good American.  I have traveled to all fifty states and have lived on the road for most of my life and in all that time I can only recall meeting one bad American, driving a Mercedes on the streets of Washington DC who wanted to move up in traffic a few feet instead of letting my family and I cross.  All the other thousands, all colors and creeds, have been good Americans, all broken, but all being United in legitimate utilitarianism as if to say, “I was here with... the rest of them!”  

A trio of good Americans