Video Transcription
The dream seemed to be pedigree, to grow rich and live in one of those disconnected houses up in the country, in one of those small communities, one of those cul-de-sacs with its gently curving waves,
where they staged teen movies and built tree houses. And in that last lost year before college, teenagers made love in cars parked by the lake.
The dream seemed to be the end of the world for me, the height of American ambition. What more could possibly exist beyond the dispatches, beyond the suburbs?
For so long I've wanted to escape into the dream, to fold my country over my head like a blanket. But this has never been an option.
Because the dream rests on our backs, the bedding made from our bodies. And knowing this, knowing that the dream persists by warring with the known world, I was sad for my country.