Everyone’s parameters for definition are obviously different.

For example, to me, Pakistan or India are vacations. But, China? Is an adventure.

I suppose my definition resides somewhere in how familiar the customs, faces and food are for me. An adventure constantly challenges, forces one to grow, and to acknowledge that there are infinite worlds within this world.

Between you and I, if time, small children and, most importantly, money were not an issue, I would travel the Silk Roads with my family.

My fascination with destinations that are historically significant started when I was about fifteen. I was in Pakistan standing right in front of the Jhelum River, and it hit me like a ton of bricks… this is the place where Alexander defeated Porus. This was the beginning of the end for his quest to conquer the world.

I closed my eyes and imagined soldiers camping on the embankments, grumbling about how their leader had finally gone mad… men who were tired… wondering why they had to follow someone else just because he was king… why they were here… missing their family… and, most of all, lost in a state of unknowing about what was going to become of them in the next few months… and when I opened my eyes I realized that though they were gone and the deeds of their great leader lived only in books, the world was still here.

Humankind was still here. Still trying to answer the same questions and still struggling with the same unknowing.  I realized that as individuals we are short lived, but as a species… the threat of nuclear annihilation notwithstanding, we might just be eternal.  And, wow, we might be worth saving, too.

That moment. It’s why I love history.

So, I like the idea of Bora Bora, but I crave the idea of The Silk Road.

As its name implies, it’s best known as an ancient trading route between China and Rome, but it was far more extensive than that in both geography and purpose. Over three thousand years old, this entity represents the truth that we are all truly connected in some way.

Specifically, that we all not only need to be connected to one another, but that we desire it. As if this need and desire is, in fact, an imperative within our being.

Whether because we need silk for spices or want to know why the sun moves across the sky… we need each other.  And we always have.

There is comfort in this piece of history.

And for the sake of argument, we will ignore that various peoples also used these routes to travel far enough to decimate their enemies.

The Silk Road!

It was… like… the Internet!!

It was the ancient Internet, connecting the entire civilized world. In addition to facilitating commerce between nations, it was also a conduit for ideas, culture and art. Islam, Christianity, Buddhism all traveled the known world via the Silk Route.  Think about this… before a person came stumbling to your town via this road, all you could think and be was one way.  And then this person brought something with them… new ideas… you could pick, you could choose… you could become different or stay the same.  But, you had a choice, now.

You had a choice!

Given that it spans something like four thousand miles, I would most likely start in Central Asia.

Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan are supposed to be great places to experience. It’s not on the immediate agenda, but one day…

So.  That would be my “dream destination.”

*Special thanks to Dave2 for asking, “Where is your next dream destination?” in response to this post, and great starting point for writing this one.

Not entirely true.

What you read or believe about the Civil War, for example, is not only based upon actual events but also upon the way people chose to remember those events.

If you live in Boston or Pittsburgh, we might talk about the struggle to free a nation from the legacy of human bondage and to reiterate the “united” in United States.  If you live in Baton Rouge or Nashville, we might talk about a struggle to maintain states’ rights and the sad victory of an expansive Federal government.

The irony is, of course, that we’re all talking about the same thing, and that we’re all sort of right.

History does not unfold in a clean room nor does its writing.

Listening to NPR on the way home from dropping my daughter off at school, I discovered yesterday that Texas will soon be in the process of revising their textbooks.

The why of it does not surprise me, though the how is still a little difficult to digest.  It is my firm belief, for example, that no matter how liberal a historian or an economist might be, they are far more qualified to pontificate on the meaning and unfolding of American history than say, a dentist.

A subscription to the History Channel does not a historian make.

I pass both an elementary school and a middle school on the way home from dropping N. off.  On that particular drive yesterday, I thought about how this piece of news has transformed history (at least as it is taught in Texas) into an entity that is now a complete function of power.  Power has always played a role in the teaching of history, of course, but in Texas, it is shining ever more brightly.

The most disturbing element of this issue is that the people who should be doing the revising are being dismissed because of their supposed politics.

And, really, you’re telling me that there is not one single conservative economist or historian in our entire country?  This, of course, implies that anyone who reads books or decides to dedicate their life to studying economics or history must by the simple virtue of a false caricature of their colleague’s overarching politics be a Commie, America hating, atheist.

Is it just me or is this the adult version of sticking someone’s head in the toilet or pantsing them in the cafeteria?

Textbook reform seems benign, especially in light of what feels like the near cataclysmic events we’re experiencing on a global level.

Still, how many of those middle school and high school kids are going to go on to read more nuanced treatments of our national history?  Very few.  The majority of their knowledge will be formulated upon a corpus of knowledge that has been offered to them by their primary and secondary school textbooks.

Do people understand that these textbooks will tell our children more than just the history of our nation, but that they will, in fact, be the framework within which they define who we are as a people?  These textbooks will influence how our children envision their role on this planet, not to mention perhaps even how they decide to vote when they’re old enough.

This reform is not, should not, and must not be the domain of politicians.

Whether or not I agree with these reforms is beyond the scope of my post, though I look forward to hearing your thoughts about them.

My real concern lies with the fact that no economists or historians were involved, according to the New York Times, in any of the revisions.

A group of politicians just rewrote our children’s history books.

I don’t really care whether they live on the left or the right of the spectrum.

This is an extremely dangerous turn of events.

::Raises hand::

It’s not easy, but I credit my keen scholarly acumen, my dedication to the pursuit of knowledge and the fact that my mind is like a steel trap.

And Warner Brothers.  Don’t forget  Warner Brothers.

Yes, he was an American.

And, yes, I realized then and now that his statement was a bastardized version of something either Victor Hugo or Oscar Wilde had once said.

But, no, I didn’t agree with him at the time and I still don’t.  I suppose that’s the nature of any conversation about literature or art, though.  Everyone has an opinion, and to some degree everyone is right.

For example, I’ve seen the Mona Lisa, and really, I was not impressed.  It’s a painting of a lady.  It doesn’t say much to me other than people will stand in line for anything.  But, people wrote songs about her, you know, so I guess there’s something there?

Despair is a transforming process, integral to creation, in my opinion.  And, yet, the greatest art can also be the articulation of hope.  The art that appeals to me is the kind that walks the fine line between these two.  A little despair, a little hope, that’s art to me.  Actually, that’s life.

So in my opinion, our artists and writers have competed quite well in the international arena.  America is not short on despair.  Nor on hope.

This piece came to my mind immediately after that statement about a lack of cultural contribution.  And it still does.

Let America Be America Again, Langston Hughes

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed--
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark?
And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart,
I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars.
I am the red man driven from the land,
I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek--
And finding only the same old stupid plan
Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope,
Tangled in that ancient endless chain
Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land!
Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need!
Of work the men! Of take the pay!
Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil.
I am the worker sold to the machine.
I am the Negro, servant to you all.
I am the people, humble, hungry, mean--
Hungry yet today despite the dream.
Beaten yet today--O, Pioneers!
I am the man who never got ahead,
The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream
In the Old World while still a serf of kings,
Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true,
That even yet its mighty daring sings
In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned
That's made America the land it has become.
O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas
In search of what I meant to be my home--
For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore,
And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea,
And torn from Black Africa's strand I came
To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free?  Not me?
Surely not me?  The millions on relief today?
The millions shot down when we strike?
The millions who have nothing for our pay?
For all the dreams we've dreamed
And all the songs we've sung
And all the hopes we've held
And all the flags we've hung,
The millions who have nothing for our pay--
Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again--
The land that never has been yet--
And yet must be--the land where every man is free.
The land that's mine--the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME--
Who made America,
Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain,
Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain,
Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose--
The steel of freedom does not stain.
From those who live like leeches on the people's lives,
We must take back our land again,
America!

O, yes,
I say it plain,
America never was America to me,
And yet I swear this oath--
America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death,
The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies,
We, the people, must redeem
The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers.
The mountains and the endless plain--
All, all the stretch of these great green states--
And make America again!

I never knew this was a topic for debate until that moment. I grew up in the Florida, and, yes, ma’am, why I do consider myself a Southerner.

I mean, sort of.  Minus the legacy of racial tension. Hey, my people were chilling out and drinking lassis when all that nonsense was going down.

Anyway, this past weekend, we went to Savannah for my birthday and as I munched on some of the best fried green tomatoes a human being has ever eaten, I started thinking about that question, “Is Florida really the South?”

I suppose you could define it in terms of the Civil War. Confederate state? Check.

Or whether people have an accent. Most people who grew up here say “Y’all,” “Yes, Ma’am” and “No, sir,” and have a tendency to drop the last letters of their words, as in “goin’ ” or “surfin’.”  Check.

South of the Mason-Dixon line… check.

Racism or racial tension. Ummm. I’m going to go with “check” on that one, too. Trust me.

Hospitality? Hello, we have Disney. So, check.

Although, I think there’s a viable argument to be had in the idea that Disney has actually made Central Florida decidedly less southern with the passing of time.

Sweet tea. Check.

Don’t get me wrong, if there was a big “Who’s the most Southern?” contest between, say, Alabama, Mississippi and Florida, Florida would definitely go running from the stage faster than Kanye on a day he forgot to take his meds, but I stand by the fact that I am a southerner.

Sort of.  Sigh.

Is Florida southern? How do you define “The South”, anyway? And what the hell is rule for capitalizing the word south?