A Sick People
Every time I leave the US, I’m always struck by how happy other people seem to be. I’ve been to six continents, dozens of countries. Nowhere else have I experienced such deeply internalized bitterness, entitlement, and misanthropy as I do back home. There’s something wrong here. We’re not well.
I’m recently back from Baja California Sur. The Mexican people never cease to amaze me. They’re some of the kindest people on Earth. Actually, I think I say that about everywhere I travel. Except for Paris. The rest of France, cool, but Parisians, no way.
I’ve often tried to pinpoint the root cause of our cultural malaise, but to no avail. Everyone is always on edge, teetering on the brink of violence. By and large, we’re fat, lazy, poorly educated, and blind to the state of things. It’s embarrassing.
I think a part of it is the individualism we’re raised to embrace. The old image of the frontiersman, pulling himself up by his bootstraps and conquering the west. We make our own way. It seems like that attitude has mutated into a hubristic solipsism that demands immediate satisfaction.
We don’t care for our children, our elderly, or our communities. It’s all me me me. How do I get mine and fuck the other guy.
It’s a shame, and it’s also contagious. I can feel it creeping into my bones. The longer I stay here, the worse it will get.