American Dreamer

The following is the rambling of a frightened fool not yet ready to give up on the American Dream, whatever that is exactly. Dylan Lamb described the American Dream as “the idea, that some day, some how, you'll be happy. That your kids won't grow up to hate you and disrespect you. That some day you won't come home fried out from work, only to sit in front of the television, or open a bottle of JD, or rail a line of coke, or any other addiction common to American life. But the most important part to remember... dreams aren't real.” There’s a sad and scary truth to this cynical sneer at the smoke we fight so hard to bottle.
As a child I read Death of a Salesman and the definition of the American Dream as an idea created by American society trying to make people believe anyone could be anything. I never bought into that idea. I don’t ever once remember believing that I could be anything I wanted to be, regardless of how it is measured. Material success…does it really matter if you hate yourself? And is it truly better to be totally comfortable in your own skin and satisfied with who you are while living under a bridge and eating out of dumpsters? So maybe a compromise, a merging of the two above ideas. Perhaps the American Dream is simply to be content, while not having to be delusional or insane to feel so. To have all your physical, emotional, mental, financial, and spiritual NEEDS met without having to kill yourself to achieve it. But then of course, there’s one more aspect…someone to share it with.
That’s the definition for me. America is supposed to be a placee where I can be content. A place where I can make my own way, if only I am willing to strive for that. A land of opportunity and second chances, where lives destroyed by circumstances, fate, others, or even ones self can be rebuilt if one is willing to make the changes and put in the work. Somewhere I have always believed this to be the American Dream. I don’t care about being famous or rich or loved by all. I dream of being able to support myself in a simple but comfortable lifestyle, to have a few truly good friends, and to be wholly loved by that one someone out there I can feel the same about.
No, I am not ready to give up on that dream. But I am losing faith. I no longer believe in a land of second chances. I doubt that a person’s past can lie dead, mistakes forgiven in light of who a person has become. The days where a man who is willing to work can build a life out of nothing, or from the rubble of failure, seem long past. And the hopelessness that comes from losing faith eats away at my soul.
But for a moment let me return to the land of the cynic and Dylan Lamb. The American Dream is “the idea, that some day, some how, you'll be happy. That your kids won't grow up to hate you and disrespect you. That some day you won't come home fried out from work, only to sit in front of the television, or open a bottle of JD, or rail a line of coke, or any other addiction common to American life. But the most important part to remember... dreams aren't real.” Of course dreams aren’t real, but when dreams become goals and worked for, perhaps….
I do have the vague uneasy hope that I can live a life happy, joyous and free. I dream of being a father, and since I hate neither of my parents, I believe it is possible to raise children who do not hate you. The hope is fading fast but still alive that I can find a job that doesn’t make me want to eat a bullet every day I have to work or leave no time to enjoy life. And the idea that I can live a life where I am no longer so beaten and broken that the only relief, the only way to make it through each twenty-four hour cycle is to grab a bottle or ingest a drug is a dream that I know can be reality.
Three days ago I celebrated ten months clean and sober after over twenty-five years of slow-motion suicide. Two days later I came closer to throwing that away than I have in eight months. Why? Faith, or rather the lack of it. Plain and simple, my loss, no, my regret of blowing my chance at even my simplistic version of the American Dream leaves me so frustrated and angry and afraid that I can no longer feel the hope and gratitude of just a few weeks ago. And that is a dangerous place for me to find myself.
Anger is a luxury I can not afford, neither is lack of gratitude.
It’s not that I’m not grateful. I have more of the American Dream than I have ever known. I have true friends who know who I have been and who I am now and love me. Every day, or almost every day, I grow a little closer to being the man that I can be, the man my God created me to be, to being comfortable, content, and happy with who I am inside and out. I have found a spiritual and real connection with a God who loves me. And I am eternally grateful for all of that. But those are three legs of the table that my life is stacked upon like a house of cards. Without the fourth leg, the table leans at the very least and the cards fall scattered to the floor.
Acceptance is the key to all my problems, so I’ve been told. But I can not accept a life where I can not support myself. A life where the willingness to work hard and learn and strive reaps no rewards. I do not need riches, but I can not live on the $700 a month or less I can earn through finding day labor here and there, and the generosity of friends willing to pay me to move stacks of lumber because they know I am not looking for a handout. I am looking for, even dreaming of, a chance. What a novel idea, the chance to earn my daily bread and the roof over my head.
I do not deserve this chance. America does not owe me. No one owes me anything. Yet I dream of it. I ache for it. I fear I can not survive without it. I can be grateful all day long that I have a table with three good legs, but without the fourth, I can not use the table to hold anything in a stable way. I can never use it to support anything of value and worth. My biggest regret is that I am the one who chopped the leg out from under the table of my life. I chopped it out, whittled it into a thousand slivers of kindling, set it aflame with my own destructive choices and watched my future go up in smoke and my dreams turn to ash.
Ten years ago I made a choice. The choice was wrong. Reasons I could do such a thing sound like the whining excuses of those who refuse to take responsibility for their actions. They will not be listed here. They do not matter. I did it. I accepted responsibility then, and I still do so today. I never denied what I’d done or attempted to escape my consequences. I pled guilty and walked out of prison an almost free man one year seven days ago today. I knew it would be difficult to rebuild what I myself destroyed. I understood I would have to humble myself and work hard. My passion, photojournalism, a pile of ash. The freelance and art photography I supplemented my income with became a maybe someday. I marched into the weakened job market willing to ignore the college degree and hopes of a career I loved. I looked for anything. Part-time, full-time? Either. Wages? I have worked for less than $5 an hour in the last few months and felt grateful to have the work. Dishwasher jobs taunted me, laughing at me as I reached and fell short time and time again. Faith faltered, fell ill and lies comatose now on life support from a source I find it harder daily to trust.
I give up. If I can not reach the lowered mark, I might as well shoot for the dream. The hopes of supporting myself doing what I love call to me like a siren, and I realize I hurt too much from living without the dream to care if my life will be dashed upon the rocks. Perhaps even if I find rocks instead of success I can at least hit the lowered mark somewhere else. Maybe I can even find a happy medium. Or, dare I hope, perhaps Dylan was wrong and dreams can indeed be real.
So today I pack, say goodbye to the woman I love, ask my father to feed my dogs, and prepare to hit the road. I have to try. Maybe there’s a gallery out there who will let my work stand on its own and not worry about marketing the felon. Opportunity could blossom in another path. Ash derived from the carbon of life under enough pressure becomes a diamond. The road less traveled by, at least by me, beckons. Sober, clean, willing, I strike out in search of the American Dream.