Barry Rosenberg

Some folks take forever to shake off a habit. Not me. It took only 44 years to rid myself of not just a debilitating propensity, but an addiction I’d carried half my life without a clue as to its presence. Thankfully, I had help – 80 million-strong help.

I grew up in America during World War II. Every morning at school we kids were bombarded with the stars and stripes. The impossible to sing national anthem. The pledge of allegiance. Maybe you think those words aren’t still carved on the walls of my brain?

Add to this, my parents, and thus I, were Jewish. I’m not going to use this forum to detail what went on in the realm of existence back then. Nor was it just those evil Nazis way over there in Europe. My parents were forever inculcating me with fear and dread of all ‘goyim’ – non-Jews. ‘Don’t ever trust them. Turn your back, they’ll stab you for sure.’ They, them.

So, a double whammy.

The Jewish paranoia slowly waned during my teen years when I played a lot of sport amongst gentiles. Later, I got in with the hippies, a melange of religions and races, followed by several years’ travelling the world with a pack on my back, hanging out with every sort and hue of human the face of the earth had to offer. Wonderfully liberating.

The American thing? Often I would hear myself badmouthing the red, white and blue as a nation of ultra-conservative tiny-mindedness. When I arrived here on a travel writing gig in 1980, I fell in love with the country and a particular beach suburb. I became naturalised: rubber stamped as a born-again Kiwi. Bye-bye, America, I reckoned.

Common addictions such as smoking, drinking, drugs and gambling foster untold means of treatment. But our early cultural inflection and infection remain hidden and lurk ever-so-sneakily. Oh, it’s pretty easy to spot with relocated English. Good lord, do Poms ever leave UK’s polluted shores? But I so disliked the American mentality, it didn’t seem the slightest problem to cut ties. Except for me it was the heaviest sort of problem coz it’s the ones you can’t see that stay with you, that quietly linger, that sit on your shoulder and mock your denial.

For sure I abhor the great orange slug and all he stands for. So when a strong, intelligent, sincere woman of colour came on the American electoral scene – I’ve made no bones in these pages how I prefer women in prominent political roles – I tore off my black singlet, slipped out of my gummies and became American again. Sent money. Voted online. Zoomed with lefty mates over there. An unabashed cheerleader, me.

At the same time, I worried. I fretted. Listened to ‘experts’. Spent too damn much time tuned in to the media. Had dreams bordering on nightmare. And then…

And then it happened. Closing the laptop that terrible evening, I dragged my grieving self to bed, flopping fully clothed like a sentient puddle of protoplasm, face buried in the pillow.

But hang on: remarkably I enjoyed the best night’s sleep in an age. Woke refreshed, alive, positively giddy. My morning meditation was deep and crystal clear. Just prior to sunrise I stepped outside. The garden was sparklingly beautiful. On to the beach for my stretches and kicks. The sky, the sea: magical blues. Came the sunrise, filling the horizon. Filling my soul with unexpected elation.

I began laughing. Just another old guy gone do-lolly, right? Nah, this old guy had proper cause. Facing nor’east, I yelled out: ‘Hey, America, you got exactly what you deserve!’ (That’s not quite the wording I used, but you catch my drift.)

So, thank you, those 80 million Republican voters, for unshackling the invisible chains suffocating my being, allowing me finally to see, and be free.