All in American Echoes
A childhood diagnosis of pectus excavatum was just the first chapter. Years later, a broken surgical strut plunged me into a battle with anxiety and a deeper understanding of my body's fragility. This isn't just a medical story; it's about the unexpected scars, the weight of otherness, and the enduring quest to define "normal" when your own story takes a sharp, unforeseen turn.
From the humid airwaves of Florida, where country twanged and talk radio crackled with local scandal, to the transformative static of a Texas college station, the radio etched its rhythm onto my youth. This is a memoir in sound, a testament to the fleeting magic of voices and music carried on the air, a soundtrack to a life lived alongside the dial.
Much has been made of the “Disneyfication” of America, and there is much to be said and discussed about this. Dreaming your dreams is not easy. Things aren’t always getting exponentially better. There is an element to Disney and the Disney idea that is, well, oversimplified and rosy. Quite frankly, there’s a lot of bullshit to it. But there’s no reason to throw the baby out with the bathwater.
The Orlando etched in my soul isn't a modern metropolis; it's pure '90s nostalgia. It's the electric cobalt of wraparound Oakley sunglasses with those distinct orange lenses. It's the defiant swagger of a No Fear tee. It's the raw energy of bands like the Nature Kids alongside the rise of Matchbox 20. It's the iconic Lil' Penny commercials and Shaq's earth-shattering dunks. That's the Orlando that lives within me.
When I was in journalism school the New York Times reporter Adam Clymer visited our class. Someone asked him for advice for a young journalist and he said we should get out and see America before it becomes completely homogenized. From his perspective, this was still a weird and wonderful land. He was right, too. Yes, people are glued to their phones and Walmarts abound, but the geography rules.
After a hiatus, I returned to blogging last year, drawn to sharing the rich tapestry of my life: family tales, the art and music that moves me, and the transformative power of travel. My aim is to delve deeper into these passions and explore new horizons through writing. My personal journey has been a path to self-discovery, and I'm eager to share those insights and experiences here.
Even in liberal Hollywood, cowboys are cool again. Yellowstone – a TV show I’ve never watched and have no interest in seeing – has reinvigorated America's fascination with ranch life. Beyonce posed wearing a cowboy hat astride a horse on her latest album cover, Cowboy Carter.
Three sisters board an orphan train headed for Jacksonville. They were not mythologized like the Western cowboys or the Irish and Italian immigrants of the Northeast. Yet stories of struggle like the 2017 film The Florida Project seem to echo Priscilla, Ida and Louvenia’s story. We all come from somewhere. I come from these women and I come from this story.
In Kurt Vonnegut’s book God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater, the title character addresses a convention of science fiction writers. He’s drunk. He thanks them for understanding that “… life is a space voyage, and not a short one, either, but one that’ll last billions of years.” This article first appeared on darrenwhitecreative.com, Aug. 10, 2012.
I don’t have any other marketable skills. I am unfit for manual labor (tried that), my math skills are remedial (that means bad) and I’m too honest for sales (didn’t get past the interview). Writing keeps the lights on, even if they aren’t burning brightly.
As I was eating two tacos and a bag of store-bought chips – which cost me, all told, about $22 – from a food truck with an absolutely horrible name, it occurred to me that I cannot remember the last time I had a good meal from a food truck.
"I take ideas from things I like on older saddles. We started creasing the borders on the saddles really just because it was something I saw on older saddles and liked." This article appeared in the July 2007 issue of Parker County Today.
