Dear Kate,
After thirty days on the road, I have finally made it back to Texas! I had a wonderful time sleeping on your couch in Palo Alto. Thank you for hosting. And please thank your husband for preparing me several meals a day. I dream about the carnitas he made: chicken marinated with orange juice, chilies, and beer. Of course, I’m bitter about my poor performance at Jeopardy. I will study up and prepare to come back stronger next time. Just. You. Wait. And. See.
As for the unwanted, pervasive thoughts you wrote about in your last letter, I understand. I moved into a teeny tiny house ❨potting shed?❩ in Austin this week, and bills for rent, water, electricity, Wifi, and trash are piling up.
What will I do to keep up? I ask myself. Does becoming a writer require going broke? Does my family think I’m an idiot? I might be an idiot. What about my 401(k)? Am I being irresponsible? How am I going to do this?
I remind myself that these thoughts are actually a privilege. The majority of Americans have far graver concerns than falling behind on 401(k) contributions. Hunger is pervasive. The ice is thin. I saw it with my own eyes this summer: in three hours, my local food bank served 1,342 families.
But what do we really understand about the experience of these Americans? What do we assume about their lives? What do we forget, misrepresent, or misconstrue? How do we relate to them? Do we relate to them at all?
This is what struck me most as I drove across the country: I know very little about life outside of my own reality.
I have a college degree from a private university. I’ve spent most of the hours of my adult life working knowledge-industry jobs, earning a salary, sitting in glass offices, toodling away on Twitter. I’ve sipped dry white wine and choked down stale crackers at networking events. I’ve had career coaches critique my resume. I’ve salivated over Anne Helen Peterson’s writing, essays like “How Work Became an Inescapable Hellhole.” Yes, yes, yes, I’ve thought. Slack is the reason I’m unfulfilled.
But this experience is not the norm. Nowhere near it. Only 35% of Americans have college degrees. For as much as we proselytize the college experience—the sports, the parties, the hand-holding in the quad—it’s an experience the majority of Americans have not had. The majority of this country completes only high school. Or, to avoid insidious financial burdens, many opt for an experience without football games and fraternities: “At least 35 percent of American students attend two-year institutions such as junior and community colleges that don’t promise a coming-of-age experience,” according to the Atlantic.
The majority of Americans did not wear Tory Burch sandals to their first week of English Comp senior year. The majority of Americans did not swish through glass doors into their first Manhattan job. The majority of Americans have never held the title “project manager.”
And yet, to watch TV shows, flip through magazines, scroll Twitter, or read the investment theses of prominent investors, you might assume they did.
I drove through eight states during my month of exploration. Heading West: Texas, New Mexico, Arizona, Nevada, and California. Heading East: Utah, Wyoming, and Colorado. I put 10,000 miles on my 2007 Ford Edge. The odometer clicked from 150,000 miles to 160,000.
I can tell you the buzzwords everyone is excited about—the “passion economy,” “the creator economy,” “democratizing work”—have not reached west Texas. They have not reached eastern Arizona, nor central Nevada. No one is a Twitch streamer in Alpine, Texas. No one is launching Substacks in Winnemucca, Nevada. (I stopped there for a delicious breakfast sandwich and coffee at Cafe 345. Wonderful!)
Instead, Winnemucca’s economic opportunities reflect the opportunities of much of the nation: Retail and service jobs. The three most common occupations in the U.S. are retail salesperson, fast-food and counter worker, and cashier.
Then there are other parts of the economy: manufacturing and logistics. I drove past trains. I drove past mines. I drove past refineries. Do you like having a gas stove in your home? Someone is turning a crank, tightening bolts, and inspecting parts to provide that gas. Do you like electricity? Cranks required there, too.
On every highway I drove, 18-wheeler trucks filled both lanes. It’s important to look at them. To see them. Every time you order a $5 phone charger from Amazon someone must bring it to you. Someone must climb into a truck, strain their back, and sit for hours at a time to deliver it. The digital world cannot exist without the physical. Truck driving is an incredibly common job: two million Americans are truck drivers.
But when was the last time you shared a meal with a truck driver? When was the last time you read a novel about a truck driver? When was the last time a brand you follow launched a product for a truck driver?
For me, the answer is never.
This is worth critically questioning. On the road, I listened to Serial’s newest series Nice White Parents. In it, the reporter Chana Joffe-Walt reminds listeners of the initial purpose of public education: to expose citizens to their fellow Americans, to create a sense of camaraderie, respect, and what Horace Greeley calls “fellow feeling.” It is this mutual understanding, Greeley argues, that allows democracy to flourish. When we understand our neighbors, we can take their needs into account. We can communicate, compromise, and come to a common agreement.
Of course, through her reporting, Joffe-Walt shows that Greeley’s goal never came to fruition. Rich never wants to mix with poor, white never wants to mix with Black. Resources are hoarded by those in power. We remain separate.
I drove for 30 days. Some days were spent with people I know—you, your inlaws, my cousin, my college friends—but most were spent alone.
There’s a vulnerability in being alone. Strangers come up to say hello. Airbnb hosts stop to chat. Waitresses share stories. I wasn’t in a rush. I had no place to be. I drove into towns I’d never been to, traveling just to look and listen. I met people I would otherwise never speak to, and had the opportunity to hear their stories.
I wrote part of this essay while munching a lemon poppy seed muffin at the Magnolia Filling Station in Castroville, Texas. It’s a cozy, charming coffee shop that used to be a gas station. Gasoline sells for “9 ½ cents per gallon” according to the meter on an old filling pump.
As I sat to work on this letter—laptop open, keys tapping—a man came over. He struck up a conversation.
“Hello,” he said, giving a small wave. “Do you know the history of this town?”
First of all: Does anyone in their 20s know how to say hello and introduce themselves to a stranger anymore? What a lost art. I appreciated this man immediately.
Second: I didn’t. Not really.
The man told me that the town of Castroville was founded in 1844 by 700 Catholic farmers from Alsace, France. The settlers were promised a home on “Free Texas Land.” His mother’s grandfather was one of the original settlers, he said. The settlers came, they built a town with vineyards and farms, and they stayed put.
The 1870s town square remains in perfect condition, with a Catholic church and a quietly bustling convent. Many Castroville families speak French or German at home. There’s a school, and families like to bring their children there.
“The town is really growing,” the man says. “We’re up to three masses on Sundays.”
He stops. “Well, we were growing. Now we’re not.”
Windows in the town are dark. Shops are closed. I overheard an elderly man at the coffee shop tell a waitress he was looking for work. He’d had a job in circulation at the town’s local newspaper for 35 years, but it was gone now. The paper had shuttered. He was looking for part-time work at Dollar Tree or Walmart.
I wonder: Would your neighbors in Palo Alto have anything in common with this man in Castroville? Would they even be able to hold a conversation?
How did we grow so far apart?
We rarely interact with people unlike ourselves. We no longer have a shared cultural memory. Our generation didn’t watch a man land on the moon. We didn’t huddle around the television to watch Tom Brokaw. We don’t have Rosie the Riveter; we have Elon Musk. Service of the collective has been outstripped by service of the self. Our personal narrative is the one that matters. “This is what I know happened.” “This is what I believe.” Our interests are in self care, optimization, wellness. How can I be the best version of me? How many hours can I ride my Peloton today?
I don’t think that’s what JFK had in mind when he gave this speech.
And so, my fellow Americans: ask not what your country can do for you — ask what you can do for your country.
My fellow citizens of the world: ask not what America will do for you, but what together we can do for the freedom of man.
Finally, whether you are citizens of America or citizens of the world, ask of us the same high standards of strength and sacrifice which we ask of you. With a good conscience our only sure reward, with history the final judge of our deeds, let us go forth to lead the land we love, asking His blessing and His help, but knowing that here on earth God's work must truly be our own.
If we continue to think as individuals—responsible only to our own personal histories—what will be forgotten when this is all over? What will be lost? I’m not sure.
During my drive across the U.S., I had lots and lots of time to think. I wrote down eight lessons while I drove across eight states. Over the next few weeks, I will be publishing essays about them. I hope you won’t get bored reading them all!
I can’t wait for you to come visit me in Austin, my pal. Big hug.
XOXOX,
Ali
My book rec: Just Kids
This week, I’m mixing it up with an audiobook. I listened to Just Kids by Patti Smith while driving. It is perfect. It’s about art, and love, and the pursuit of something greater than yourself. You must listen to it. Just take my word for it. If you don’t believe me, watch this video of Patti Smith reading for PBS.
The book: Just Kids
My rating: ✨✨✨✨✨
Read more: Patti Smith’s second book, M Train
BTW, Terry Gross is back! I missed her.
Also, did you read this essay on the Barefoot Contessa in quarantine? I loved loved loved it. Almost, but not quite, as much as I loved Martha. Martha is in a league of her own.
👍🏼👍🏼👍🏼