Identity is a weird thing. It's so... fluid. Dependent on circumstance. Able to change at a moment's notice.
Like when you're on a road trip. Driving across America -- very American, standard American pastime. When you drive past -- past the towns, and the open fields, past the strange roadside attractions that you'd swear were some sorts of shrines to strange gods, you're American. When you see the mountains and the forests and the salt lakes and the road stretching on and on, and when you watch the town, city, state line markers whiz past, you're as American as every last one of them. American, American. Past the strange iconic statue
But then. When it's been a while, and you need to go to the bathroom, and you pull up to the one restaurant at the tiny rest stop
And you -- suddenly you see how cut off you are from all that, how separated. In so many places you're American, American, but not here -- in this Midwest-rest-stop-McDonald's bathroom, an American Holy of Holies, and here you are, cut off from that American-ness and you --