Fear, Happiness and the American Dream: the Difficulty of a Simple Life

The front porch of my house was another place where I would often go and think, or not think—I could just as easily stare blankly down the road with nothing more than a quiet hum in my head. I liked it because being there didn’t suggest a commitment to any particular action, staying or leaving. It was outside, but not quite gone. If someone inside called to me and I didn’t want to be found, I could rush off to somewhere else.

The porch was painted, a slippery perfect gray finish. It never made sense to me that my mom painted the concrete, especially considering that she painted it the same color it was to begin with, a dull gray. But, she liked everything to be perfect. My mom believed that your environment influenced the rest of your life. If you could keep the house you lived in clean and orderly, the events of your life would follow in like manner—at least that was her theory. Even when things were crazy, my mom always insisted that everything was fine. If you said any different, she would say that you must be tired or hungry, always implying that the problem was with your perception. All you needed to do was change your attitude and clean your room, and everything would be just fine.