Except we pronounced it "Hay Zeus."

No shit, the first maybe ten years of my life were spent as myopically concentrated on American Life as humanly possible, without being aware of it.  I didn't know anything about, say, Ghandi until I hit my teens.  I knew about America's enemies, which, in 1979, were as follows:

1. Iran
2. The entire Communist world
3. Illegal Aliens (I grew up in El Paso, mind you)
4. space invaders
5. Nazis

I also knew of American allies.  In 1979, these allies were:

1. British people
2. The country of Canadia
3. Japan, because we'd nuked them
4. Poland
5. The rest of Europe
6. Saudi Arabia

And, of course, I had a list of the ten greatest Americans of all time.  I found a copy of said list, actually a copy of a copy; I'd transcribed it from memory into  journal that I had in my teens, and that journal is with me today.  The top ten list of greatest Americans of all time, according to the 7 year old version of me:

1. Mickey Mouse
2. Superman or Batman, depending on the battle
3. Jimmy Carter
4. Big Bill Haywood
5. My grandfather, Osby
6. General George S. Patton
7. Chuck Yeager
8. Johnny Cash
9. The Beatles*
10. Burt Reynolds (as The Bandit)

At the time that the list was compiled, my favorite music was Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture (recorded by the London philharmonic in Quadrophonic Sound) which I believed was written about the battle in New Orleans versus the French (but was actually written about the Russian war against Napolean in 1812).  The Beatles were a quick #2 on my list.  *I believed them to be from New York, since all things BIG came from New York or LA, and John Lennon had worn a New York shirt or two for various Rolling Stone portraits. The Rolling Stones were a sure #3 (I was sure they were from New York as well).  Michael Jackson and Stevie Wonder were tied for #4.  And #5 was The Eagles, which my dad's band covered so well that I was sure my dad had been in the band.

See, in my little kid brain, everything good came from America.  Television, computers, fast cars, jet fighters, Harley Davidson motorcycles, the Bell Telephone System, the Eisenhower Highway System, enchiladas with an egg on top (hey, I was born fifteen feet from the border), Coca Cola, Disney, Rock and Roll....

You name it, if it was good, I was positive we'd invented it or at least perfected it.  I was raised with non-politically correct history books, where Apache were misguided savages of the worst order and Nazis were the scourge of mankind. I also had Texas history, where Mexico and Spain were presented in a medieval light, glorious feudal locations with riches beyond measure and cultures that ran back to the beginning of civilized people.  Science was an American domain; no-one did it better than us, though they may perfect the method for sale.

As the world plunged into the Reagan years, my eyes were slowly opened.  I'd developed a thirst for American history, and wanted to know all I could about our frontier eras, and our rise to industrial power.

The more I read, the more I realized how narrow my vision was.  I'd been trained well.

Native Americans weren't savages.  Women were strong leaders. There were continents outside of the Americas, Europe, and the Soviet Union.  The Japanese didn't like being nuked. The British lost more people in more wars than we'd ever comprehend, and that's a drop in the bucket compared to Russia.  Ghandi's non-violent methods were not invented by Martin Luther King.  Jesus was olive or dark skinned, Arabian-looking. The Beatles were from England, as were the Stones. And on and on.

Though the core of my American ego remained intact, the lessons I learned were hard to swallow.  I'd been told my whole life to that point that Americans were bigger, faster, and smarter than most other people.  That we were the world's breadbasket, the source of democracy and freedom and charity.  That we were loved by everyone except Nazis, the Soviets, and crazy Iranians.

Over time, I learned what we all know. That there is good and bad in everything. And that my job was to try and be the very best I could at whatever I did.  That was my task as a citizen.

Now, these days, with my leadership so far removed from "the best" or even "good," I find all this charming naiveté tucked in a long-forgotten (and hugely embarrassing) journal, and I have to remember what my purpose is, here, in the face of a darkened, battered American dream.