What is the American Dream?

I’ve heard it called the white picket fence in front of your home, starting your own business, building a house on land that you own and can pass down through generations. Or was that the American Dream of our parents, grandparents, and their parents before them? What is the American Dream for a young adult traversing the world in this modern era?

My parents immigrated here from a small island on the other side of the world and worked a combined minimum of 90 hours a week. For 30 years, they worked diligently to support a family of six, as well as being a home for other immigrants looking to get started here in the good 'ol US of A. To the spectators back in Palau looking toward that so-called “American Dream,” my parents were the ideal models: three sons, a live-in caretaker, two homes, four cars, and a Bayliner boat. Who wouldn’t say we were a successful middle-class family in mainstream America? Yet when it’s all said and done, my parents decided to leave it all behind and return to the islands right before the Covid pandemic began. Compared to the 30 years my parents were here, they say they’ve never been happier.

When I lived on the islands after getting kicked out of college, I was dirt poor. I was lucky to scrape together $100-$200 in a week’s time, usually because my mother would send me a care package or some cash here and there. I wasn’t allowed to get a job while living under the Old Man’s roof, but he did give me $50 a week for all the work I was doing for the family. Hard, grueling work. Work that would start at the break of dawn, and in my youthful confidence, I would normally just be getting home from a night of drinking just before. Islanders have a tendency to party rather hard relatively often. As in every single night. And in the house I was staying in, you were expected to always be able to work. It’s rather crazy to say that there are still slaves in the world, yet it’s even crazier, I think, that they were paid more than I was while I was living abroad with my people, with my family.

I was happy, funny enough. Every day I had purpose, and a smile would fill my face. Some days were spent gathering food for the family via the land or the sea. Sometimes the sky if you were handy with a slingshot or an airgun. Surprisingly, I’m rather adept with the former. Other days I would just relax, escape the heat, and stay hydrated. The act of just relaxing has eluded me since returning stateside. But each day, the same thought would always cross my mind first thing in the morning: survive. That was it, ensuring that I was going to make it through the day, and then I would go through it. A simple thought, yet I never questioned my existence or my place in the world. My favorite days in particular would be spent either on the beach in a hammock or lying on a large branch in a mango tree, a good book in my hands, and better music in my headphones. I was poorer than at any other time in my life, but I was happy. It really makes me wonder what makes a person “rich” today.

But even so, there was something missing. I would stand on the beach, looking out into the distance, and it still just didn’t feel enough. At 19 years old, I knew that I was just too young to be this content. To be young, strong, confident. I wanted more in life, to take the effort and determination I knew I had and make my fortune in this world. To make a name for myself. That, I think, is the true American Dream. And with that, I escaped from the Old Man’s grasp, something I’ve come to regret from time to time, but an entirely different story altogether. I returned to America feeling like a prince returning from exile. But, you know, in the opposite direction.

I came back hungry, ambitious, and ready to seek my fortune. But just how far can an uneducated first-generation island kid go on ambition alone? Pretty far, actually. I grew up locally, fishing with my friends in any nook and cranny we could find. By the time I was 18, I knew this state like the back of my hand, and my mother had been employed at a historic hotel in downtown Seattle for longer than I’ve been around. Washington is my home, and I had a job ready for me when I returned, which is a luxury not many can say they have. As a night valet for the Mayflower Park Hotel, in the heart of Seattle, I got to see the Emerald City shine as a hub for technology, art, and expression. But it wasn’t the city I grew up in. Behind the glimmer lies a grimy underground that is just as much a part of Seattle’s identity as its shine. The likes of Kurt Cobain and Jimi Hendrix would be indulged in, for certain, but through my own experiences, I truly wonder if such a lifestyle attributed to their mental decline, as well as my own.

I lived all over the city, engaging with a variety of people that could probably cover the diversity of the Olympics. Seattle is a true melting pot here on the West Coast, with people from all over the country and the world coming to embrace the Northwest. I can’t blame them. In what little travel experience I have in this world, I still believe summers in Washington cannot be beaten. I once had a roommate from Texas, a petite little thing with a big heart and open mind but terribly gullible and easily influenced. I think of her from time to time and the things she would tell me. How I wasn’t very good at relaxing, that I focused a bit too much on work and “making it,” but also how the city of Seattle was emitting radio waves from the cell towers to make all of us go crazy. I watched her mental state decline, and though I tried to help as I could, I hadn’t realized the decline of my own mental health as well. The signs were there; old friends could tell you that. But I was raised to be a man, and men hold it all in.

Or so I thought. It begs the question, what does it mean to be a man today? The great philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, who lived in the mid-1800s mind you, was able to describe the troubles of the modern man so eloquently that it is translatable to men today nearly 200 years later. Troubles that didn’t matter to me while surviving off the land, but now living back in greater society, I find myself almost subconsciously conforming to the norm. Slowly over time, I moved farther and farther away from that hungry lad looking to go farther than surviving to being another cog in the machine. The “grind” everyone here is so proud of chipped away at my psyche. We Americans hold a lot of pride in always being busy. I was no different, and even with the Covid-19 pandemic shutting down my hotel and changing the entire trajectory of my career path, I failed to take advantage of the situation. Instead of turning a bad situation into a good one, instead of recognizing the opportunity before me, I had become something I had originally vowed would never happen. I had gotten comfortable with my life.

Comfort is an enemy to progress, something a roommate had told me years ago when I had just come back to the States. That line resonated with me so hard that I, at times, attributed it to the success I had found over the years. Alas, I fear I may be a bit of a hypocrite. I’m not sure when it truly started, but eventually, I began seeking escapes from reality. Moments of relief from the world around me. It most likely started with video games, a simple escape with a low cost. But I’ve never been one to get absorbed into gaming like some friends I had. The escape I sought led me down paths darker than I may want to admit at times. Drugs, sex, speed. Life in the fast lane comes with its risks. After losing a coworker recently to street violence in Tacoma, I’m thankful every day I managed to hold on to humanity. There was a time I nearly lost everything. I’m ashamed to say my life is what everything is to me. And I can’t say that I’m better as of today, but I am alive. After claiming to give up so many times before, I’m starting to see that you don’t truly give up until you pull that trigger.

It’s hard talking about mental health as a man, but I think it’s necessary. But not in the ways that are promoted today. I think the problem lies in the idea that men and women are the same, and so it is women who say men should open up and express themselves more. It’s men who tell other men to suck it up, get over whatever it is, and move on. I was a big advocate for the phrase “sticks & stones…” my entire life, but after the walls I had built up for so many years were taken down, I was amazed at just how painful words really can be. Pain that I began to feel after I loosened my barriers. To this day, I know what I should have done differently, and I can guarantee as a survivor I will never allow them down again. But before you say that’s a bad thing, that expressing myself is the healthy thing to do, I have to wonder why some think that way. The strongest, healthiest men that we all look up to are defined by the very qualities the rest of men are discriminated against. The men who ultimately lead, save, and are depended upon are troubled not by lack of purpose. They are able to face any issue head-on and do what is necessary for the greater good ultimately. One thing in particular, I believe, is making the conscious effort to hold in their emotions. That sheer will and extreme focus on the mission at hand, once established, will always define the line between real men and everyone else.

I’ve left the city life. If for a while or for good, I can’t say I know for sure. Staying out in the countryside just 30 miles from Mt. Rainier, life is a lot slower. I’ve always said islander people and rednecks are essentially the same, the only differences being we’re dark and they’ve got guns. We both like to drink, party, fish, and work hard. Every small teriyaki joint in this town is a hitter, a fact not even Seattle can claim sadly. The folks at the local diner are both curt yet courteous, and they’ll get to know you real fast. The neighbors can be miles from each other yet closer than I am with my own brothers. Coming out this way, I’ve come to realize that even while living in the heat of society, you may not always find a true community. I don’t think the internet has particularly helped over the years, though it really could have.

And that brings me here today. I read a quote not too long ago that went as “If you don’t know what to pursue in life right now, pursue yourself.” I loved that and have begun to really focus on what it is I want and who exactly I am. For the first time in a long time. I’d highly recommend to anyone who might be reading this to do the same if they may be struggling in their life. In pursuing my passions, I rediscovered my joy of writing, though I’m doubtful I’m very good. I have started fishing again, and just being back out in nature is calming beyond compare. I’ve even managed to pick up something new and discovered a love for motorcycles I didn’t realize I had before. I’ve taken the time to really reflect upon myself and not just talk about it. In fact, I find myself talking less in general, something I’m sure my mother would appreciate. But writing is something that I’ve loved since I was a young lad, and in my pursuit of my American Dream, I would like to commit to it. So if you stuck around to read through this all, I am thankful beyond words. I hope you found my story entertaining, and I’d love feedback on becoming a better writer. I plan on telling more of my story, as well as the stories of many amazing people I know from this amazing state, and am launching a website in pursuit of that. This is the odd part I still haven’t mastered yet, asking for visitors and subscribers. But if you don’t mind the “ad talk,” I’d really appreciate the support. And hopefully, we can build a community of like-minded individuals just looking to find their place in the world.