Ten years ago today, I packed a suitcase and moved to the US. I cried a lot when I said goodbye to my friends and I took a checkered black and yellow fedora hat with me on the plane. Only one of those pieces of information still fills every fiber of my body with embarrassment and shame.

Here’s the thing, though. I was worried that the hat would crumple up had I shoved it in the suitcase, so figured I’d just carry it with me. The only thing that wound up crumpled on that tear-filled day, though, was my masculinity.  

Men are allowed—should be encouraged, even—to cry.

Men are forbidden—should be discouraged, even—to wear fedoras (unless they can hit every note of “I’m Yours”).

So, you may be asking, why bring the hat to begin with. Fair question.

I was moving to a new country, I was going to college, it was time to experiment, become a new human being, etc. etc. etc. Maybe, just maybe, I thought, I could be the guy who wears a fedora. Not to mention, I was enrolling into a school named Stetson. Ten years later, despite the fact that pretty much everything else about me conveys the persona of a douchebag in fedoras, I wore that hat precisely one time. I will share that anecdote at the end here (and if you behave and/or ask nicely I may share photographic evidence). Anyway.

It’s been ten years, so here are ten things about my time in the United States of America.

1. Things are easy. Not, like, important things such as health insurance and affording a house and returning home from school safely and being equal in the eyes of the law. But the everyday existence, that which keeps the capitalistic butter churned, is so incredibly easy. It’s so easy to spend money, I guess. Spend money on things we don’t really need (you don’t need to live in the US to learn this, just watch Fight Club). It is just so wildly and incredibly easy to purchase and own and hold almost any imaginable product without having to interact with a human being or get up from your horizontal position on the couch that gives you a double chin. Any product you can imagine. Even a fedora. (An aside: I’m under the firm belief that the entire issue of the younger generation can be explained through the fact that they NEVER have to go through the experience of purchasing condoms in person [something which, if you’re a fedora wearer, you needn’t worry about].)

Now, I know that online shopping or whatever doesn’t belong exclusively to the US, but once you arrive at this land, you get to claim anything you see as your own. That’s why life is simply easier here.

2. Well, it depends. The extent to which your life in the US is easy depends on your race and gender and class and astrological sign and number of commas in your bank account and favorite sports team (it is hard to conjure a joyful existence for Bills or Mariners or Jazz fans [the latter doubling to refer to the music genre too]). But that’s a trite statement—the fact that the social landscape favors privileged people—which is why that isn’t point number two. My point here is that, in America, a country ruled by the idea of more, there are simply more ways to differentiate, and each of those provides the chance to hierarchize. The divisions carry meaning, and in a country founded by people whose imperial superiority complex empowered them to manufacture self-evident truths about equality, the sense of entitlement stemming from being this and not that, one and not the other, inferior and not superior, seeps into every facet of life, rendering your spot in the social pecking order as contingent on its relation to where others are. It’s you or them. It’s the US, not us.

3. Everything here matters. Everything, except for you. You don’t matter. Well, not “You” you, but “U” you. In this country, even though there’s humor in spreading rumors about your neighbor’s favorite color, the behavior lacks honor and flavor, so in order to fit in, you must remember that U don’t matter.

4. I grew up speaking English, so presumed that that would make adjusting to life here rather seamless. Except that I was taught British English, so had to accustom myself to not only different spelling (this is a clue for the previous note, in case you didn’t get it), but a new vocabulary as well. Flats weren’t renovated but became Apartments, Autumn remained the same season but changed to Fall, and Scones gained their right to bear arms and became Biscuits.

Again, though, you could say that what I’m listing here isn’t unique to the US. Every country one moves to will require a certain linguistic adjustment, big or small, something that became evident a week into my time here. I landed at a university called Stetson, which was located in a town called DeLand. I used to describe DeLand as a small, redneck, Florida town, but was then told that that’s an offensive word, so now I just describe it as a small, redneck town.

A week in, I went to Chili’s with a couple of new teammates. After several failed attempts at ordering, one of my teammates had to step in and explain to the bemused and peeved middle-aged waitress that I didn’t want any tuh-MAY-toes on my pasta. Now. I’ve since stopped being a picky eater, but the lesson remains lucid. Every nation you go to will require a level of acquiescence, but Americans, when you don’t play by their rules, will take your conduct as a personal affront. Point is, despite being members of the “greatest country in the world” (no one reference the Jeff Daniels The Newsroom speech please), Americans, the self-proclaimed lions, still concern themselves with the opinions of sheep. Not that they need the sheep’s validation, but that they don’t really feel like lions unless they regularly remind everyone—themselves included—of the fact that they are.

5. On the other hand, unfortunately, this kind of is the greatest country in the world. It’s hard to explain, really. It just is. Go watch Jason Lezak’s anchor leg in the 2008 Beijing Olympics 4X100 freestyle relay (Or Steph’s 4th quarter against France) and you’ll understand. When it’s great here, it’s just greater than it is anywhere else.

I guess I’m biased because I’m writing this from within the borders (and I’m low key high key still trying to keep myself in good graces in the eyes of ICE). I also don’t have much to compare to as the only other place I’ve lived in is Israel (if anyone has any thoughts or comments about this country please share with me!!!). But the US kind of is the greatest country in the world, in much the same way that Joey Chestnut could be considered the greatest athlete of all time.

Is Joey, the professional eater, an athlete? Instinct is to say no, but the literal definition of the word is ‘a person who is proficient in some form of physical exercise,’ and regardless of what we think of a man shoving 76 hot dogs into his mouth in 10 minutes, that is both a physical act and a hell of an exercise. He won 16 Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog Eating Contests and holds 55 world records across 55 disciplines, which, according to Major League Eating, is a “World Record of World Records.” Keep your LeBrons and Phelpses and Bileses. Give me Joey.

I guess, in the same vein, we could ask whether the US is even a country? Or is it just an open warehouse of ammo and Miller Lite and baseless opinions? Who’s to say? But perhaps more importantly, who cares? So long as you’re okay with playing a little fast and loose with the facts, you can assert whatever you want to assert. Especially when your military budget is about $842 billion dollars. (Evidence of murkiness of the facts can be found in the fact that what I said about Joey Chestnut holding the WR for WR is actually inaccurate. Someone named Ashrita Furman is Guinness’s actual official World Record World Record holder. But guess what? He’s American too baby Brooklyn born and raised USA USA USA.)

There is a certain je ne sais quoi (the kids call this Rizz, I believe) to this country and its people and its national sports leagues that crown “world champions.” A confidence that self-actualizes greatness and renders this country, for all its flaws, a cultural and athletic and academic juggernaut. Movies in Hollywood and universities in the northeast and grocery deals at Costco. This is the place to be.

Keep your Scandinavian Socialism and Canadian clean air. Let me cheer on a man eating 7.6 hot dogs a minute to distract me from the crippling social fabric I’m surrounded by.

Peak athletic performance

6. For a country that is synonymous with capitalism, an ideology that is rooted in the exploitation of work, there are so many holidays. Everything is a holiday. Except that holiday doesn’t necessarily mean vacation or day off. It just means an email from some shit you subscribed to years ago that’s offering 14.92% off all products because it’s Columbus Day.

There’s power in the image. People here tend to believe that things are as they seem. And if it seems to be the land of the free, you can deal with the cost. Or use one of your 8 PTO days.

7. Things are bigger (hence why this point will be the biggest [and most interesting but that’s not for me to say] of the essay). Frankly, things are too big. From the sodas at fast food chains to pickup trucks on I-95. All of it. Too big. And this is coming from a man who’s been told that size does not matter.

I know that the saying is “Everything is bigger in Texas,” but I’ve been to Walmarts in rural Florida. I’ve been inside a Bass Pro Shops in Georgia that had its own zip code. I’ve seen some things. They are bigger everywhere.

In 2020, I drove a minivan across the US (the country that is, I guess, the Texas of the world). Four months, 34 states. It was peak COVID so I missed out on parts of the experience, but it was also a perfect way to witness the country’s central dichotomy (I haven’t used a fancy word in a while so this is to fill the quota). In blue states, everything was shut down. In red ones, for the most part, the general vibe was very much, Come at me, SARS, do you even know how many hot dogs I can eat in a minute?

I spent one Saturday night in Mobile, Alabama. That evening, masked up, I walked into a packed bar that was showing Alabama’s football game against the Florida Gators. If you’re not familiar with college football culture in this country in general, in the South specifically, and in Alabama ultra-specifically, then just know that it takes a lot to draw the attention of Bama fans away from the screen when the Crimson Tide are playing. Nonetheless, the sight of a brown bearded man wearing a mask walking through the door got the job done.

I left that establishment immediately, then went to a different bar (maskless) and ordered a beer and nachos. The plate of chips and toppings that landed in front of me moments later was enough to feed a family of at least four (non-Americans, that is). It was absurd. I’d say the plate was about the length of a one-year-old alligator and the width of an Olympic swimming pool. I tried my absolute best and I got about 62% of the plate cleaned up. When the bartender cleared my plate, she said, You gave it a hell of an effort, and to my dying day that sentence will haunt me, remind me of my failure, remind me of the fact that I could never be Joey. (I still believe that had I not had any beer I would’ve had enough room to finish the job).

I sat at the bar next to a couple in their 50s. The man was a lifelong Bama fan who, for some reason, was wearing a puffer vest over a white shirt and a championship ring from who knows what year. He seemed very wealthy. The woman, fake platinum blonde, barely spoke. They were both lovely and gracious, and the man bought me a beer. I was a brown immigrant on a student visa (who is still on the prowl for a Green Card and will accept [almost] any and all marriage proposals) and they were a couple of white folks with a southern twang who I would prefer to not know their whereabouts on January 6^th, 2021. But we got along so well. Mostly, I’d argue, because, that night, we both fucking hated the Gators. Maybe if people here hated together more, it may be a slightly better place.  

Point being, when you hear about how everything here is bigger, you may hear about how 333 million people or 50 different states are too many for one government to try to handle. How a population this big is bound to sprout a few bad apples, rendering the lower end of intellect and morals in this country to be so much worse than anywhere else. How the attempt to mollify the sheer size of it all was by oversimplifying the political system so that people are essentially given only two options to choose from, leading to a polarized population that is so massive on both ends that the red and blue echo chambers people find themselves in feel large enough to be indicative of what reality really is, despite the fact they are not, severely hindering the prospect of decent democratic discourse. But maybe the debilitated state stems not only from the size of the population, but also from the size of the people, and the size of their egos.

If you don’t believe me, just go walk through a Walmart. Or order some fucking nachos.

(Fun little anecdote: after chowing on the nachos in Mobile, I went to a bar that had a pool table where some local dude who works stadium construction and I played 2V2 all night. Every game included a wager of tequila shots and I don’t think my buddy and I lost once [I have blurry and deranged photographic evidence of this night, too, if you’re curious]. We hugged like brothers when the night ended. Two weeks later, he sent me a video of him cooking crystal meth on a little metal spoon. Awesome guy.)

8. Speaking of nachos, Americans fucking love cheese. Cheese is everywhere. I have nothing else to say, really. It works. It’s awesome. There’s nothing you can melt cheese over that wouldn’t be instantly improved. Doughs, meats, vegetables, humans, even cheese itself. Cheddar feta swiss cream American munster pepper jack parm mozz Cheshire gouda burrata cascaval, you name it. Beautiful. All of them. Impeccable. No notes.

What can cheese be a metaphor for? Perhaps for our very planet, which is also melting by the day. But maybe cheese needn’t be a metaphor for anything. Maybe we can simply enjoy cheese for what it is: a reason to smile*.

(*as always, I like to share with you what my own favorite joke is in my own piece of writing [it’s masturbatory, whatever, everyone does it]. this is the one.)

9. The national parks, if you’re lucky enough to make your way to them, are insane. When you traverse them, you begin to understand why people wanted to colonize this land. Big Sur, Big Bend, Big Sky—they’re all fucking incredible. And it’s almost as if this country has a predilection for things that are big. (Author’s note: Big Sky isn’t technically a national park, only a gateway into Yellowstone, but, you know, it fits the essay.) So, yes, there is beauty in eight handfuls of shredded cheddar encrusting over a Pyrex of macaroni on Thanksgiving, but this country is also home to 63 national parks that offer the pinnacle of natural beauty. And that’s without even counting Sydney Sweeney’s Grand Tetons.    

It boggles the mind that in the span of a couple of hours you can go from watching a man gorge two Big Macs in the front seat of his car to gazing upon the gorge that is the Grand Canyon. But that’s what beautiful about this country: no matter if it’s a crater that’s a product of a tectonic uplift from 30 million years ago or two beef patties* with a slice of good old mother fucking processed American cheese placed in between them by a minimum wage worker, somewhere there will be an adjective that indicates something’s sheer size.

I’ve been lucky enough to visit a couple of the national parks (all on that same minivan road trip). Personal favorite was Angel’s Landing in Zion National Park, which offers the most incredible vantage point, reached through a red rocky path that is about the width of a plate of nachos (footage below). The only guard rails on the path, if we can call them that, are a couple of sporadic ropes you’d find outside a club that you and your double chin could never get in to. There is no way in hell that the final part of the climb should be legal. Not as in, Girl you should be arrested for looking so damn fine, but in a very actual sense that citizens should not be legally permitted to walk there. They don’t even make you sign a waiver. Anyone can go. Even, and especially, people who subsist on genetically modified foods and big sodas.

Point being, witnessing beauty is a privilege, as being able to visit these parks is an expensive and logistically challenging ordeal. But this country also offers you the privilege of purchasing ten chicken nuggets for $1.49. And maybe that’s beautiful too.

*the funniest thing, objectively, i did in my ten years here has to do with two big mac beef patties. premium subscribers of the website (people who venmo me $1.49) can submit a formal request for this video content

10. As I was descending from Angel’s Landing, I slipped slightly. This was not my fault. By which I mean, it was my fault but I don’t want you to think I’m someone who doesn’t know how to hike. What am I, a fedora wearer?

I slipped at a very, very steep part of the trail, jumping from one red rock to another, and almost tumbled about 5,770 feet to the ground. I was obviously fine and resumed walking immediately, pretending nothing happened. But there were people around. At some point further down the trail, some woman stopped next to me and asked, You’re the guy who almost fell, right? You nearly gave me a heart attack. I wanted to reply, So did the Big Mac you probably gorged on last night. I did not. I amicably responded then asked if she had a daughter around my age who is willing to marry for a Green Card in exchange for a man who cooks AND washes dishes after because he likes how the hot water feels on his palms. I did not do that either. Anyway.

The woman then proceeded to ask if I was okay, which leads us into observation number ten. This country is plagued by the disease of fake politeness. Car washes, restaurants, expensive brand fashion stores which you’ve clearly only entered in order to touch some of the fabrics knowing good and well you can’t afford anything on the shelf but you just wanted to touch something soft that isn’t yourself after having one too many drinks.

But because performance is so prevalent, and is so clearly fake, then this country has found itself in a position where genuine kindness can, often, be taken as ironic. An attempt to get ahead. A personal affront, even. Political messaging, brand advertisements, people’s daily conduct. Everything feels as if there must be an agenda behind it, and if it’s not your own agenda, then the person you’re looking at must be seen as an enemy, despite the fact they may have no affiliation to the Florida Gators.

Everyone here asks you how you’re doing, but no one actually cares. People have their own shit they’re dealing with. It’s kind of like how the US says it’s the greatest country in the world despite the fact that every other country is dealing with its own shit.

The difference, I guess, is that the US has a military budget of $842 billion dollars. So you kind of have to care.

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The One Time I Wore A Fedora (which i think i still own but i can’t promise anything)

A couple of weeks into college, I was informed of an ABC (Anything But Clothes) party taking place. My team and I was excited. I, growing up on American Pie, thought this was it. This was the story I’ll come home and tell my friends about.

Leading up to the party, the squad was trying to figure out what to wear. Many suggestions were thrown. My roommate and I decided to go to Walmart and see what we find. We wound up in the diaper aisle. We looked at one another, as only men who know they’re about to do something stupidly awesome can, and we knew this was it.

We messaged the team group chat, and everyone, apart for two guys, was on board. We all showed up in diapers. I realize this may not be as cool as you think it is, but when you roll into a party in diapers, 25 people deep, you feel invincible. You can piss at your leisure and no one would bat an eye.

The whole team met up at the pregame where my roommate and I distributed the goods. People decided to put on accessories to, I guess, make them stand out amidst all the babies (this is a reference to us being in diapers, not us being emotionally immature men). Some wore sunglasses or ties or necklaces. I wore the fedora.

Someone at the pregame made a comment and I wound up leaving the hat at the pregame and not bringing it to the party. Yes, I am that weak.

We were the hit of the party. Original, simple, mobile, funny. Other guys walking around in flattened Coors Light cardboards could do nothing but hold their hands up and applaud (figuratively, since they had to keep one hand down to prevent their costume from falling).

We went to the bars after the party, and as the night dragged on, team members left to find fast food or feminine fellowship. I stood at a high top table with the two teammates who didn’t partake in our costume. Eventually, sipping on a beer, I looked around and saw that every other diaper dude had left. The bar was filled with normally dressed people, and one doofus in a diaper who didn’t even have a hat to help cover his shame.