For The First Time, I See Home

Towards a North American civilization.

I was born just off the shores of Lake Erie, in what’s now called Ohio. Spent my youth wandering her forests, her waters, and looking over the sea to what’s now called Ontario.

I asked the question that would define my life until now.

“Can we go there?”

The answer was yes.

I went there. Saw her forests, swam in her waters. We ended up so far away from where I was born. An accident that was minor elsewhere could be fatal here. It was on the shores of the French River I looked up and for the first time saw the Milky Way. A canopy of stars was the roof over my head.

I wandered more. Went West. Went through the arch of what we now call St. Louis. The Mississippi is so loud. Saw the Rocky Mountains, the Grand Canyon, and the great deserts of what we now call Utah.

Then I grew up. Attended a school in what we now call Columbus, Ohio. Studied history. Walked her neighborhoods, drove her streets. Gosh, there’s a lot.

Soon, the mountains called.

“Can we go there?”

I went there. Lived at the foot of Pike’s Peak in what we now call Colorado. I explored her forests, swam her waters, and wandered her cities. Saw the starry canopy above. Gosh, there’s a lot.

I heard about what we now call Maine. Didn’t even have to think about it.

“Can we go there?”

I explored her harbors, her coasts, and her towns. After that I needed Ohio, for a time. Her lake, her forests. It looked different though. It changed. But so did I. That’s interesting.

I grew older. A friend needed help in Florida. I stopped asking.

“We’re going to Florida.”

I’m in what we now call Miami. It’s so big! So loud! My heart is going to explode. Gosh, why is everyone so goddamn attractive? This place is great. I explore her cities, her sins, her women. The beaches. It’s so hot. Why is it so hot all the time?

Years later, a small town in the swamp captures me. It’s the places that aren’t asking. Or even telling. Now it just happens.

That’s interesting.

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Human beings are meant for families and communities. From that, we can’t help but make culture. We make our homes wherever we find ourselves, as God intended.

For someone like me, where is my home?

I’m from Ohio. I’ve lived and travelled all over. Now I’m in Florida. This is where I’ll die. God willing it’ll be in the saddle at the school I love, but I’ll take whatever I can get.

So where’s home? I think that’s attached to what I am. It was Ohioan. I don’t think it’s Floridian though. Some other thing. Considering the culture mix here, we’ve got a huge chunk of everybody. Everything you can find across the continent (and our neighbor to the south!) are here.

And I think that’s where I find my answer.

I’m North American.

All of that? Up there? It’s home. From the coasts of the Arctic to the Isthmus of Panama I’m confident I could go any of the places here where people are and make a go of it. Make my family. Make my community. Make my culture. Be useful to wherever I find my feet standing on their own.

These past few weeks I’ve been meditating on the implications of this realization. Taking the history of this continent into its fullness the best I can, and considering the multipolar world emerging in the 21st century, I think we are destined for a properly North American civilization.

God willing, what would that look like?

It’s conservative, by which I mean our priorities are in order: family, community, and culture. We understand the proper ordering of a civilization, despite current difficulties to the contrary.

It’s beautiful. Travel widely and see how the people reflect the land.

It’s creative. Our art, music, and literature is world renown. Beyond that, film itself was birthed from our technological and artistic brilliance.

It’s curious. One of our flags on the shores of another world is proof enough, never mind the countless striving for worlds beyond, just to see what’s there.

It’s brave. Every last one of our family lines came here on a one way trip. The oldest by foot, then by sea in ships of sail and steam, and finally by air in flying machines. A one way trip it was, whether we liked it or not.

It’s spiritual. We crave service to that which is bigger than ourselves. We inhabit a vast cathedral of God’s own making, more magnificent than anything mankind will ever craft. As a child I’ve played in it. As an adult I’ve walked it. Lived my life in it. How can we not recognize the glory of Him who made us?

Finally, it’s brutal. There’s cold that will freeze you, heat that will bake you, storms to toss you, and floods to drown you. In North America, there’s lots of ways to die. Thank God we inhabit a hard land because it, in turn, makes us men and women capable of cultivating it.

It’s on this final characteristic I wish to end. Save for our South American cousins, I don’t care about the rest of the world. For too long we’ve tended the shores of others. Restore our focus to it’s only rightful place: home. Would it save one of my American kin? Reduce the world beyond our shores to ash.

In the final tolling I can only pray I see clearly: an American Imperium stretching from the chill winds of the north to the sweltering heat of the south, guarded on both sides by moats carved by His hand. Because of this, a new question forms.

“Can we stay here?”