yourself. People work at jobs, advance their careers, buy their own things, and support their own families. If youâre successful, itâs your achievement. If you fail, itâs your problem. The individual is the basic unit of social interaction. This puts a lot of pressure on the individual to succeed and to be an autonomous, fully functional member of society.
âIn Latin America, from what I could see, the family was the basic unit of life, not the individual. People seemed to identify and understand themselves primarily according to their family, extended family, and community. Itâs hard to say this and not sound clichéd, but family and community seemed to mean something totally different in Mexico than it did in my world.
âI donât want to sound like a sociology textbook, so let me tell you why this is relevant to me. I was on a journey, spending time and money. I was choosing to go out into the world and find something. I was obviously doing something , but what the hell was it?
âFirst, I was getting away. I was striking out on my own and escaping my family. Why was I escaping my family? I donât know. I have and had a great family, but for some reason I felt the need to get as far away from it as possible.
âTravelling was, in one sense, eye-opening, rewarding, and mind-expanding. But in another sense, it all led nowhere. It was a treadmill. Getting away gave me lots of perspective, but it didnât leave me feeling like a well-defined individual. It was, sometimes, a little too much perspective. I was struck by how wonderful and different life could be but I didnât return with anything substantial.
âI knew when I left that I was chasing after some kind of dream. My ideas, however, were hazy. I was looking for my own version of the American dream. Not the Star-Spangled Banner version though. I was looking to discover something that spoke to the reality of America,which I saw as being sort of fallen, desperate, excessive, and glorious. I wanted to experience America first-hand, as it really was. I thought of myself as walking in the footsteps of Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan, and Jack Kerouacâon the road.â
[So, I thought,my literary suspicions are confirmed. . . .]
âIn a lot of ways, I was looking for glory. (This is stereotypical of young males everywhere, but for me it was true.) When I came home, I thought I would return with stories and a broader understanding of the world. I would never have admitted that I was looking for glory, but that was surely a large part of it.
âBut I found that this kind of search eventually hits the wall. I saw all kinds of people, with all kinds of lives, and all kinds of stories, but whenever Iâd stop to talk with someone, the question eventually came upââWhat is your story?â They wondered what I was doing in their world, in their town. Did I have a wife or children? Where was my family? What mattered to me, and what was I doing so far from home?
âAnd that always left me in a funny position, because I wasnât sure what my story was. I was part way through a history degree. I was from Toronto. My girlfriend had taken off to Hong Kong. My own world didnât make a whole lot of sense to me, so I was looking for that meaning somewhere else.
âIt was like the âEpic of Gilgamesh,âwhich I studied in first year, where this prince or king goes off in search of the eternal sun, or something like that. Heâs travelling with this half-man, half-animal guy named Enkidu. They end up finding what theyâre searching for then lose it in a pond. They come back home empty-handed, and thatâs that.
âThe way I saw it, people all around me were taking rather pointless things very seriously. In university, for example, everyone took their marks and their future careers very seriously. But getting perfect marks and the perfect future didnât appeal that much to
âIn Latin America, from what I could see, the family was the basic unit of life, not the individual. People seemed to identify and understand themselves primarily according to their family, extended family, and community. Itâs hard to say this and not sound clichéd, but family and community seemed to mean something totally different in Mexico than it did in my world.
âI donât want to sound like a sociology textbook, so let me tell you why this is relevant to me. I was on a journey, spending time and money. I was choosing to go out into the world and find something. I was obviously doing something , but what the hell was it?
âFirst, I was getting away. I was striking out on my own and escaping my family. Why was I escaping my family? I donât know. I have and had a great family, but for some reason I felt the need to get as far away from it as possible.
âTravelling was, in one sense, eye-opening, rewarding, and mind-expanding. But in another sense, it all led nowhere. It was a treadmill. Getting away gave me lots of perspective, but it didnât leave me feeling like a well-defined individual. It was, sometimes, a little too much perspective. I was struck by how wonderful and different life could be but I didnât return with anything substantial.
âI knew when I left that I was chasing after some kind of dream. My ideas, however, were hazy. I was looking for my own version of the American dream. Not the Star-Spangled Banner version though. I was looking to discover something that spoke to the reality of America,which I saw as being sort of fallen, desperate, excessive, and glorious. I wanted to experience America first-hand, as it really was. I thought of myself as walking in the footsteps of Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan, and Jack Kerouacâon the road.â
[So, I thought,my literary suspicions are confirmed. . . .]
âIn a lot of ways, I was looking for glory. (This is stereotypical of young males everywhere, but for me it was true.) When I came home, I thought I would return with stories and a broader understanding of the world. I would never have admitted that I was looking for glory, but that was surely a large part of it.
âBut I found that this kind of search eventually hits the wall. I saw all kinds of people, with all kinds of lives, and all kinds of stories, but whenever Iâd stop to talk with someone, the question eventually came upââWhat is your story?â They wondered what I was doing in their world, in their town. Did I have a wife or children? Where was my family? What mattered to me, and what was I doing so far from home?
âAnd that always left me in a funny position, because I wasnât sure what my story was. I was part way through a history degree. I was from Toronto. My girlfriend had taken off to Hong Kong. My own world didnât make a whole lot of sense to me, so I was looking for that meaning somewhere else.
âIt was like the âEpic of Gilgamesh,âwhich I studied in first year, where this prince or king goes off in search of the eternal sun, or something like that. Heâs travelling with this half-man, half-animal guy named Enkidu. They end up finding what theyâre searching for then lose it in a pond. They come back home empty-handed, and thatâs that.
âThe way I saw it, people all around me were taking rather pointless things very seriously. In university, for example, everyone took their marks and their future careers very seriously. But getting perfect marks and the perfect future didnât appeal that much to
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