While visiting Sydney, a pal of mine from Canberra told me something that caused  my mind to erupt more violently than Mt.Vesuvius. He stated that Americans are  happier than Australians. I doubted him vocally and boisterously because in my  eyes, Australia is a utopia. A safe haven to all that feel lost within themselves. A  place for those who long to breathe naturally again. Also I’m American, so go figure.  Americans hate America. We all know that. Subliminally I felt like he was just  making fun of my desire to live here in the future. Because ultimately, like the  rancid brats we all are, we want what we don’t already have. Even if you don’t know  much about that thing, person, or place. We always want more. You grow up in  California, you want snow. You grow up in Colorado, you want beaches.  Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but bark at him. “What do you mean? You butt-face!  Why are you trying to crush my dreams like a bug right now?” He chuckled slightly  but I could see the sincerity behind his irises. This wasn’t a cruel gimmick to get me  to leave. He was opening up to me. “Americans are happier than Australians  because they are told growing up that they are great.” Now, that befuddled me.  “Well duh! Every parent tells their kid that. Now what’s the real reason?” He shook  his head quickly and for quite some time, like a fly navigating its way through a  food court. “You’re not getting it. Australian children aren’t told that they are great  or special or whatever the fuck. They have to prove themselves because their  parents didn’t acknowledge them like that growing up.” My jaw dropped  dramatically; plummeted to the floor like a Looney Tunes character’s mouth would.  You know what I mean. I was flabbergasted. And that doesn’t happen often let me tell you. “Yeah, that’s why people here and in the UK are so depressed.”I started to  feel myself getting restless. Like my body was revolting against this so called “fact”.  I couldn’t expand on the topic any further. I had reached the last belt notch of  anxiety. We sat there in silence and simply listened to music the rest of night. I  requested Kendrick Lamar because he always pacifies me whenever I transform  into an unsettled infant. It didn’t help. It encouraged my anxious confusion even  further. I left shortly after two songs.

The next day, it didn’t leave me. The thought followed. It was tattooed on my  cerebrum. What do you mean your mother never told you how wonderful you were  and how wonderful you are now? I couldn’t keep my mind afloat. It just continued  to sink into endless frustration. Never in all my years of living have I imagined a  world without what I believed was love. I guess it was just counterfeit praise all  along. Australians have to prove themselves Han Solo. Yes, we all do that at some  point but Americans prove themselves to their individual selves. Not to other  people. They already know that they themselves are unique and incredible because  their mommies told them so. But they still have to prove it to themselves. They  need to know its not solely coming from family. Does that make sense? Australians  don’t have a motivation already built into their mind frame like we do. They have to find it. At first, I was disheartened to the nth degree after absorbing my friend’s  statement. Over time, I pondered whether or not parents congratulating their child  based on the child alone was a highway to entitlement. Maybe this is why  Americans expect success to be presented to them on a Balenciaga branded platter.  Because they’ve been told in their most crucial stages of development that they are  outstanding no matter what they do. I couldn’t help but question my childhood  altogether. Maybe this is why there are superiority complexes in the world. My  mind kept racing around a track of revelations. I tried to conduct research.It failed  miserably. “Children are not mere recipients of socialization, but their  characteristics shape the socialization they receive, which in turn shapes them”  ……..let’s just say I never got a definite answer.

Life isn’t supposed to be as simple as a first grade spelling test. It’s not  supposed to be an item that is handed to you without reason. It is an orchid that  must be tended to. It holds beauty but can be dainty; vulnerable. But then there’s  the happiness portion of what started this whole mind fuck for me. Is this why I’m  happy? Is this why I’m happy with who I am? Because my parents told me I could  do anything I set my mind to? Without joy, l don’t know who I am. Without joy, I  have no name. Maybe there are exceptions to this rule. Maybe I am the exception.  So it couldn’t have come from my parents. And it couldn’t have come from my  American descent. It came from me.