A Quilt of a Country By Anna Quindlen

America is an improbable idea, a mongrel nation built of ever-changing disparate parts, it

is held together by a notion, the notion that all men are created equal, though everyone

knows that most men consider themselves better than someone. “Of all the nations in the

world, the United States was built in nobody’s image,” the historian Daniel Boorstin

wrote. That’s because it was built of bits and pieces that seem discordant, like the crazy

quilts that have been one of its great folk-art forms, velvet and calico and checks and

brocades. Out of many, one. That is the ideal.


The reality is often quite different, a great national striving consisting frequently of

failure. Many of the oft-told stories of the most pluralistic nation on earth are stories not

of tolerance, but of bigotry. Slavery and sweatshops, the burning of crosses and the

ostracism of the other. Children learn in social-studies class and in the news of the

lynching of blacks, the denial of rights to women, the murder of gay men. It is difficult to

know how to convince them that this amounts to “crown thy good with brotherhood,” that

amid all the failures is something spectacularly successful. Perhaps they understand it at

this moment [in the aftermath of 9/11], when enormous tragedy, as it so often does,

demands a time of reflection on enormous blessings.


This is a nation founded on a conundrum, what Mario Cuomo has characterized as

“community added to individualism.” These two are our defining ideals; they are also in

constant conflict. Historians today bemoan the ascendancy of a kind of prideful apartheid

in America, saying that the clinging to ethnicity, in background and custom, has

undermined the concept of unity. These historians must have forgotten the past, or have

gilded it. The New York of my children is no more Balkanized, probably less so, than the

Philadelphia of my father, in which Jewish boys would walk several blocks out of their

way to avoid the Irish divide of Chester Avenue. (I was the product of a mixed marriage,

across barely bridgeable lines: an Italian girl, an Irish boy. How quaint it seems now, how

incendiary then.) The Brooklyn of Francie Nolan’s famous tree, the Newark of which

Portnoy complained, even the uninflected WASP suburbs of Cheever’s characters: they

are ghettoes, pure and simple. Do the Cambodians and the Mexicans in California coexist

less easily today than did the Irish and Italians of Massachusetts a century ago? You

know the answer.


What is the point of this splintered whole? What is the point of a nation in which Arab

cabbies chauffeur Jewish passengers through the streets of New York–and in which

Jewish cabbies chauffeur Arab passengers, too, and yet speak in theory of hatred, one for

the other? What is the point of a nation in which one part seems to be always on the verge

of fisticuffs with another, blacks and whites, gays and straights, left and right, Pole and

Chinese and Puerto Rican and Slovenian? Other countries with such divisions have in

fact divided into new nations with new names, but not this one, impossibly interwoven

even in its hostilities.




Once these disparate parts were held together by a common enemy, by the fault lines of

world wars and the electrified fence of communism. With the end of the cold war there

was the creeping concern that without a focus for hatred and distrust, a sense of national

identity would evaporate, that the left side of the hyphen–African-American, Mexican-

American, Irish-American–would overwhelm the right. And slow-growing domestic

traumas like economic unrest and increasing crime seemed more likely to emphasize

division than community. Today the citizens of the United States have come together

once more because of armed conflict and enemy attack. Terrorism has led to devastation-

-and unity.


Yet even in 1994, the overwhelming majority of those surveyed by the National Opinion

Research Center agreed with this statement: “The U.S. is a unique country that stands for

something special in the world.” One of the things that it stands for is this vexing notion

that a great nation can consist entirely of refugees from other nations, that people of

different, even warring religions and cultures can live, if not side by side, then on either

side of the country’s Chester Avenues. Faced with this diversity there is little point in

trying to isolate anything remotely resembling a national character, but there are two

strains of behavior that, however tenuously, abet the concept of unity.


There is the Calvinist undercurrent in the American psyche that loves the difficult, the

demanding, that sees mastering the impossible, whether it be prairie or subway, as a test

of character, and so glories in the struggle of this fractured coalescing. And there is a

grudging fairness among the citizens of the United States that eventually leads most to

admit that, no matter what the English-only advocates try to suggest, the new immigrants

are not so different from our own parents or grandparents. Leonel Castillo, former

director of the Immigration and Naturalization Service and himself the grandson of

Mexican immigrants, once told the writer Studs Terkel proudly, “The old neighborhood

Ma-Pa stores are still around. They are not Italian or Jewish or Eastern European any

more. Ma and Pa are now Korean, Vietnamese, Iraqi, Jordanian, Latin American. They

live in the store. They work seven days a week. Their kids are doing well in school.

They’re making it. Sound familiar?”


Tolerance is the word used most often when this kind of coexistence succeeds, but

tolerance is a vanilla-pudding word, standing for little more than the allowance of letting

others live unremarked and unmolested. Pride seems excessive, given the American

willingness to endlessly complain about them, them being whoever is new, different,

unknown, or currently under suspicion. But patriotism is partly taking pride in this

unlikely ability to throw all of us together in a country that across its length and breadth

is as different as a dozen countries, and still be able to call it by one name. When

photographs of the faces of all those who died in the World Trade Center destruction are

assembled in one place, it will be possible to trace in the skin color, the shape of the eyes

and the noses, the texture of the hair, a map of the world. These are the representatives of

a mongrel nation that somehow, at times like this, has one spirit. Like many improbable

ideas, when it actually works, it’s a wonder.


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