ASHLEY MOORE

 

In our younger years we were taught about the American Dream. “America is the land of opportunity,” our teachers would say, “where the fruits of this good nation are obtainable with hard work and determination.” Row after row of bright-eyed young Americans, we peered into the pages of history textbooks, staring at photos of those who came to our country seeking the life of fortune.

For the throngs of immigrants arriving by the boatloads in the early 20th century, that meant a steady job, food on the table, and the ability to provide for one’s family. As we read on, we learned the secrets to a good fortune: If at the end of a hard day’s work there was something to show for it, such as food on the table or money in the bank, you were living the dream.
 

Of course there were setbacks—plenty of them. As we grew older, advancing in our studies, our textbooks revealed the adversities that challenged so many of America’s dreamers. Many of the hard times were economically driven and some were racially driven. But the dream continued to live on despite the upsets. Over the years it gained speed, persistently inspiring the faces of our country. And today we are still intoxicated by the idea of each of us becoming our own American success.

 

It’s been several years since I’ve looked at textbooks from my school days. It’s been even longer since I thought about the history lessons. But lately, I’ve given those days some thought, flirting with the idea of my own dream. I live in New York City just blocks from neighborhoods where a hundred years ago immigrants shed blood and tears in their quest for fortune and the good life.

As an aspiring, young writer, I haven’t shed blood, but there have been some tears. I guess that makes me kin to earlier immigrants in this city because I can’t seem to give up, call the stops, or let my knees buckle.

 

Each day I embark into the city. It’s dark and disfigured, jarring out temptations and distractions. And, it’s not even winter. But at the end of the day, after I’ve spent many hours at a day job writing for a magazine and at a night job waiting tables, the dream keeps telling me I will have something to show for these efforts someday. But what, I ask my tired self? A small studio apartment no bigger than my parent’s living room back home? Or could it be the empty refrigerator that crystallizes a lonely block of cheese?

 

“America is the land of opportunity,” our teachers would tell me again, “where the fruits of this good nation are obtainable with hard work and determination.” There is a beautiful naiveté to that school lesson. As children we will believe anything and continue to believe it until we’re told not to. At its core, the American dream is childlike, too. As we grow older, at times disquieted by fear of never receiving good fortune, the dream remains relentless, continuous, yet to be stopped.

 

My fortune may never be fancy cars or a penthouse apartment. It may also—I must admit to myself—never be to become a writer. But still the dream continues to inspire, so that one day I am confident I will be my own American success.