COLUMN: Looking Beyond the Rose-Colored Glasses
finding the line between nostalgia and truth, both at home and afar
BJ Hollars, illustrated by Lydia “Nibs” Noble |
A few weeks back, my family and I pulled into the Big Falls County Park parking lot to find it suspiciously empty.
“We lucked out,” I said, festooning myself with bags of beach toys and inflatable animals as I led us on our cheerful walk toward the water. Yet within moments, it was clear our luck had run out. The black flies were biting the patches of skin where the mosquitoes weren’t, while the gnats were dive-bombing our eyes. But the real kicker was that the beach was nowhere to be found. Recent rainstorms had raised the water levels well beyond the sandbar, leaving nothing but the fast-flowing river behind.
“Well,” one of the children shrugged innocently, “I guess this explains why no one is here.”
We made the most of it, posing for photos alongside the thunderous rush of those falls. Crowding around them, we felt the cool spray of water flicked to our faces as we sighed to take in the view. Sure, I recall the less-than-ideal moments, too (see above), but they’re not the focus of my memory. We all had a blast; I even have the pictures to prove it.
In most circumstances, donning such rose-colored glasses is hardly a crime. Yet in some circumstances, there’s a price to be paid when we saturate ourselves in the way we wish things were at the expense of how things happened.
As you read these words, my 13-year-old son and I are barreling down Route 66 — the 2,448-mile historic highway from Chicago to Santa Monica — to test this very point.
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THIS IS WHY MY SON AND I HAVE HIT THE ROAD: IN THE HOPES THAT WE MIGHT LOOK PAST THE SENTIMENTAL DISTORTION OF THE "GOOD OL' DAYS"
to see the most accurate depiction of Route 66. Which is not to say we're hoping to poo-poo America's most beloved highway – or forego any freshly-made banana cream pies.
B.J. HOLLARS
What’s the deal with Route 66? What’s history, and what’s hype?
Route 66 old timers love to talk about the neon-lit signs of the old motels, and the banana cream pie made fresh in the café each morning. They’ll regale you with stories about roadside attractions like Cadillac Ranch and the Blue Whale of Catoosa and the World’s Biggest This, That, or the Other. One Route 66 scholar proudly proclaimed that the road is a “mirror held up to the nation.”
Maybe. But if so, it’s a bit of a funhouse mirror.
While it’s easy to be captivated by Route 66’s well-publicized magic and mystique, it’s harder to see it for what it truly was: a route that was technically “open to all,” but primarily served those with the means, money, and skin color that most assured safe passage. Open your eyes wider and you’ll see that, until the late 1960s, Black travelers often found themselves hightailing it through one Sundown Town or another until they found a motel willing to accommodate them. Indigenous people along the route were exploited, too: most often by white shop owners appropriating their cultural artifacts for kitschy souvenirs.
This is why my son and I have hit the road: in the hopes that we might look past the sentimental distortion of the “good ol’ days” to see the most accurate depiction of Route 66. Which is not to say we’re hoping to poo-poo America’s most beloved highway — or forego any freshly-made banana cream pies. I just hope that our journey can be undertaken without rose-colored glasses, in the hope that we might see it fully.
When you’re determined to love something unconditionally, you risk sacrificing the authenticity of the experience. I love Big Falls as much as the next guy. But when I’m willing to acknowledge the mosquitoes, I can remember to pack the spray.
As you read these words, there’s a chance my son and I are sidled up on a stool in an Oklahoma café, enjoying some banana cream pie.
Either that, or I’m failing to change a flat tire in the Mojave Desert as buzzards circle.
Next time I see you, I’ll be sure to let you know which part I remember.
