On America(na)
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“The trouble with America,” my father says, “is that it’s too big.”
As he speaks, a morsel of food misses his mouth and begins to fall down his body. Like a climber who has lost their grip, it tumbles down the terrain and bounces off his belly, coming to rest in a crevasse somewhere in his trousers. My father has opinions about America. He has never been there and he doesn’t know any Americans. He never will and he never will.
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