Loving Home

This summer, I worked abroad with an Italian archaeological team, eating lunches and dinners together, even living in the same house. Their favorite conversation topic was regional differences, from food to architecture to culture. Italy is famous for its distinct regions, each with their own dialect, history, cuisine, and traditions, all of which are bound up in a strong sense of local pride, so this was scarcely surprising. What surprised me was not their justified passion, but how little Americans reciprocated it.

Both stereotypically and statistically, Americans are patriotic. When it comes to concrete aspects of culture, however, even devoted Americans immediately roll over, apologizing for the food, entertainment, and cultural preferences of other Americans in a desperate attempt to prove they’re not the “ugly American” traveler.

We all know what “loving America” means–it’s historical; you have a favorite founding father, you know the key battles of the Revolutionary War. Or maybe it’s political; you admire our Constitution and believe in the American dream. But what about everyday culture? That is, the tangible things that can root you in a particular community, not just vague ideals  applicable to all 3.8 million square miles of our landmass.

Honestly, a lot of what’s Pan-American is trashy—McDonalds and Hollywood. That’s the America the world thinks of, and sadly, the way that many Americans think of themselves. If you think of your culture as tasteless, garish, and shallow, it will negatively impact your perception of yourself.  

Fortunately, we’re a nation designed to be local. And, as any Italian could attest, local culture is riddled with the charming, unique, and personal. So, how do we re-learn to love local culture in a Pan-American world? Where can you find these elements distilled into one potent brew? Enter the music festival.

Yes, there are other local institutions that bring people together,  but it is music that acts like a cultural solvent, dissolving the boundaries between strangers. At music festivals, I’ve seen everything from old country to experimental hip-hop, psychedelia folk to 90’s rap. Some are strikingly good –and some are terrible (I’m looking at you, folk singer from the animal shelter donation drive.) The only thing they have in common? They bring people together. Since the bands are “nobodies,” the omnipresent mediator of experience–the phone recording–very rarely makes an appearance. The crowd  amassed in front of the stage–playing children, chatting adults, even the mandatory group of tipsy middle-aged women dancing poorly–laughs easily and communicates naturally.

And people are happier when they talk to strangers. Communication skills are eroding, and the risk of receiving a blank stare grows ever higher. The right and opportunity for  casual interaction remains sacred at the music festival. At the very least, you can talk to the vendors. I often think about the woman I met whose father was a survey archaeologist for the national road system of Kazakhstan–he spent months backpacking the arid steppe, sleeping under a blanket of blazing stars. Or the mother of three, just immigrated from the Caribbean, who used to perform as Count von Count from Sesame Street at a luxury resort. Getting to know your neighbors is a worthwhile endeavor, but, as markets, pubs and casual, chatty coffee bars are few and far between, it’s not an easy one. Festivals still allow us this automatic local connection.

“Everyone should love their home,” my Italian housemate told me. Not only your national ideals, but your home. My slice of America–Evergreen, Colorado –is roasted hatch green chiles and our famous hippie mac-n-cheese joint. It’s jam bands and bluegrass, mountain biking, ice-skating, and canoeing on our lake. It’s a home worth loving. Under a blue summer sky, among the artisan booths and food trucks, talking with people who have shared local experiences, that’s an easy thing to remember.