Westward Ho

In my effort to document this moment in time – how we got here and where we might be headed – so that future readers might gain a clearer picture of their own circumstances, I'd like to tell a personal story about manifest destiny.

Forty-three years ago this September – 1966 – my family and I emigrated from Philadelphia to Phoenix, Arizona, becoming part of a great flood of latter-day pioneers who would change this great nation in ways no one could imagine at the time. We crossed the Great Plains in a steady caravan of moving vans, sedans and station wagons – dad behind the wheel, mom navigating, quarrelsome kids in the middle seat, the dogs in the back, guarding nothing in particular.

Although we had one goal in mind – opportunity – there were innumerable reasons for leaving home: dank cities, dead-end jobs, misty woods, milk barns, slums, high-rises, stuffy parents, angry lovers, eastern snobbery, northern snows, southern humidity, and anything else that humdrummed our lives. Seeking a brighter horizon, we went west as young men and women, drawn by the desert's promise of light, space, warmth, and a swimming pool in every backyard.

We were met with open arms. Homesteading a new land called Suburbia, we were greeted by town leaders who enthusiastically cleared the desert for settlement while their industrious partners planted cheap homes in the newly disturbed soil like row crops. Everywhere we looked, shopping malls and commercial clusters were springing up like patches of flowers (or weeds) after a spring shower. All was fresh, clean, and hopeful.