“The beautiful and the innocent have no enemy but time.”

America was once both.

I say this as a Canadian—with no vote, but a dog in the fight. I love the United States. I’ve worked illegal jobs just to experience her. I’ve driven through every single state, bathed in the American Dream, and peered into its fractures. I was denied a green card. I wasn’t even eligible for the lottery. So I did what many dreamers do: I snuck in through the back door. In my case, that meant pumping gas in a frigid Wyoming town for $4 an hour.

And I was happy to do it.

There was character in that landscape. The men carried a cowboy slant. I relished the view from the outside looking in. And had I been caught? I would’ve taken the deportation with no complaint. That’s the risk. That’s the deal. Canadians understand the rules—we’re taught them young.

But let the record show: I wasn’t a threat to the system. I wanted in. I wanted to be part of the assembly line of the American experiment. My motives wouldn’t fit on an immigration form—I was simply bored of Vancouver, still “the little city that could, but wouldn’t.” My soul yearned for Vermont pastures, greasy Chinese takeout in Hell’s Kitchen, and sneaking into Dolly Parton’s theme park at 2 a.m. in Tennessee.

Call it romantic. Call it illegal. In the right light, it was all epic Americanism.

A Borderline Devotion

Here’s something most people don’t know:
Jack Kerouac, patron saint of American road-writing, only touched 17 states.
John Steinbeck? Twenty-eight.
Bill Bryson, my literary mentor, managed 38 in two trips.
I drove through all 50. Alone. Sleeping in my car. Just to feel it. To know her. To honor the dream from the outside.

Thank you, America. You once shined.

There was an era—the Apple Pie years, call them—when patriotism wasn’t performative. When Better Homes & Gardens sat proudly on coffee tables, and the flag stood not for one party, but for all. John Hughes bottled the spirit in films like Sixteen Candles and The Breakfast Club—a Rockwellian innocence, now nearly unfilmable in today’s outrage economy.

America wasn’t just a country.
It was the country.
And then something veered.

The Trump Detour

At its worst, Trump’s presidency is like a four-year construction project: detours, orange cones, and the occasional promise of a smoother ride. Whether you see him as a savior or saboteur, there’s no denying he touched the third rail of American identity. Over and over.

And people can’t look away.

If his goal is to rewind the clock to America’s peak, I don’t blame him. I might even endorse the attempt—were I American. But his methods feel like hammering random nails just to see which one bleeds. It’s less restoration, more recalibration-by-chaos.

I don’t know what a detour from this roadwork looks like. But I know the highway once mattered. And it’s cracked now—riddled with slogans, conspiracies, and partisan potholes. From any angle, the United States looks stalled in a ditch while the rest of the world drives cautiously by.

Where Do We Go From Here?

Canada will take you in—if you qualify. And if we catch you here illegally? We’ll send you back too. No fuss, no drama. That’s how sovereign borders work.

I don’t say that coldly. I say it with respect. Rules matter. But so does reverence.

Because for all its flaws, America was worth knowing. Worth crossing lines for.
And if it ever finds its way back to Main Street, U.S.A.—with its diners, its optimism, its humble pride—I’ll be the first one pumping gas in Wyoming again. Not for the paycheck.

For the myth.

America was once both. Now it’s stuck in traffic.

I say this as a Canadian — with no vote, but a dog in the fight. I love America. I’ve worked illegal jobs just to experience her. I’ve driven through every single state, bathed in the American Dream, and studied both its shine and its cracks.

I was denied a green card. Couldn’t even enter the lottery system, which is open to anyone in Mexico, but not to Canadians. So I found another way. I spent a year working my way around America. A few months of that in Wyoming, pumping gas in subzero winds for $4 an hour.

And I was thrilled to do it.

There was character in that landscape. The men looked like they’d been carved out of horse sweat and gravel. I watched them from the outside, grinning, knowing exactly what I was doing: playing the long game. If I’d been caught? Deport me. No protest. No headlines. That’s the risk. Canadians know that. It’s the game.

But in my defense — I’m a proud fourth-generation Norwegian. A sliver of the population. In the racial spectrum, I rank just under albinos. And yes, I was freezing, sore, and legally invisible. But I was doing a job Americans didn’t want.

No, send me back home.

If I’m caught working illegally tomorrow, send me back across the 49th parallel. But don’t mistake my presence for protest. I wasn’t trying to game the system — I wanted to be part of it. A cog in the American machine. My reasons wouldn’t fit on an immigration form: I was bored of Vancouver, still the little city that could—but didn’t. I’d traveled most of the world as a kid, but something in me longed for Vermont’s pastures, greasy Chinese takeout in Hell’s Kitchen, and sneaking into Dolly Parton’s theme park at 2 a.m. in Tennessee.

In the right light, everything I did could be read as pure Americanism.

Kerouac, the avatar of American freedom, only visited 17 states. Steinbeck, in Travels with Charley, covered 28. My mentor, Bill Bryson, managed 38. Me? I hit all 50. Slept in my car. Ate at gas stations. Crossed the entire country alone — fascinated, foreign, and utterly grateful.

Thank you, America. You once shined.

Then Came the Roadwork

There was a time — the Apple Pie years — when America glowed with something close to innocence. The 1980s and 90s. When John Hughes films gave us small-town sanctity and flag-waving wasn’t a political act, just a gesture of shared belonging. Families read Better Homes & Gardens. People decorated with optimism. America wasn’t just a country — it was the country.

But that era faded. Now the place feels like it missed an exit, veered off the International Highway, and flipped into a ditch teeming with social justice alligators. Chaos. No map. And the rest of the world drives by, unwilling to stop.

Into that comes Trump — part detour, part demolition crew.

At his worst, Trump’s presidency feels like a construction zone that swallowed the entire country. Orange cones in every direction. Everyone honking. Promises of a smooth ride just ahead, if you can make it past the wreckage.

Is he trying to rewind the clock to that American peak? Maybe. And if I were American, I might even support the ambition — but not the execution. Trump hammers at everything, hoping some nail dares to stick out. It’s not restoration. It’s rage carpentry.

I don’t know what a detour from this detour looks like.
Fleeing to Canada? You’re welcome here — if you qualify. And if not? We’ll deport you, too. Quietly. Cleanly. That’s sovereignty.

Final Exit?

The truth is: America was once beautiful. And it was innocent. But time doesn’t care.

Now it echoes through TikToks, talk shows, and threads of outrage, trying to remember its lines. It wanders through a deep, digital forest — looking for Main Street, U.S.A., but always arriving at another parking lot argument.

If Trump’s still trying to find the way back, he might want to stop hammering.
The dream doesn’t need another nail. It needs a map.