No Land Is My Land

This land is your land…

The president is the size of Hana’s pinky; his mouth the size of dirt specks under her fingernails. His lips clip sentences into fragments, but the television is on mute, and has been since the nurse wheeled her in from labor and delivery. Blocks of captions flash across the screen, almost too quickly to follow. Hana tries anyway. Something is wrong, or was wrong, or will be wrong again. 

Hana agrees. The sheets beneath her are damp, and her baby is pressing against her wrist IV. Her body feels eerie and unfamiliar. It’s more like a vehicle, a broken down, leaky car with her trapped inside. She could call in a nurse. But this is the first time in hours that both the baby and Hugo are sleeping. 

On the television, she catches a promise from that pinky President: Greatness is still ours. 

No. That’s not quite right. Another blur of captions, and then two words come into focus: True Americans. 

Greatness will always exist for True Americans.

The baby in her arms wriggles. Hana looks down and suddenly sees too much—the shade of his skin, the shape of his eyes, the texture of his hair, the entirety of his future stretching out from this first day to his last. 

“Hello, True American,” Hana whispers. The words turn acidic on her tongue. Is she even a True American?

An old adage about checking for prices surfaces: If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.

…and this land is my land.

When Hana is not changing diapers or filling bottles or cleaning onesies or promising a baby that “it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” she scrolls through Reddit. The news washes over her. She is a beach, a flattened bed of sand, allowing waves and driftwood and bones to crash into her consciousness again and again and again.

“You already know True Americans when you see them,” one article says. “You just know. We all do. You can tell by looking at them, by listening to them talk. Sometimes even by smelling them!”

This is a quote from earlier today, in the Oval Office, from the President. 

One headline from the same press event: “President Suggests Only Three Types of People Live in the Country—True Americans, Inhabitants, and Illegals.”

The article that follows is unclear on what separates an Inhabitant from a True American; though the President’s quote about “looking at them” and “listening to them” is used.

“Are you all from the area?” 

“We moved last month,” Hana says.

The woman in front of her is their neighbor, Scarlet. She is about Hana’s age, but the years sit differently on her shoulders, which are toned beneath the straps of a turquoise tank top. Her hair is yellow, and she almost sings her sentences.

“Oh, everyone’s moved,” Scarlet says. “No one‘s from here. Me and Drew grew up over in Montgomery County.”

As Hana watches and listens and even smells Scarlet, one thing is clear: Scarlet is a True American. The President was right. You can just tell.

“We’re from San Francisco,” Hana finally says. 

“Wow, all the way across the country!” Scarlet cocks her head. “San Francisco. How exotic.”

“Is it?”

“Well, it feels, I don’t know, barely even part of America, you know? So many different sorts of people and ideas and food…” Scarlet trails off. She can just tell, too. Hana is not looking or sounding or smelling the right way.

From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream waters.

The day before Hana’s maternity leave ends, she spends the baby’s naps writing out every executive order of the current President on individual sticky notes. She uses shorthand: anti-education, pro-Christianity, anti-transgender, pro-billionaire, anti-Medicaid…

By the time she’s done, the craft project covers the walls in their bathroom and bedroom. There are almost a thousand executive orders after a year of the President’s term. Former President Biden had signed 162 during his four years in office.

Hugo enters the room with the baby and looks around without saying anything. He hands over his phone, which is open to a news article.

“Executive Order 999: Citizen cards for True Americans will allow seamless travel across state and national borders, priority service from law enforcement and medical providers, and guaranteed, unprecedented protections for pursuing happiness and greatness.”

Hana grabs another sticky note.

“And what about the rest of us?” she asks.

The baby coughs and spits up. 

This land was made for you and me.

Hugo stretches a paper map on the nursery floor. He holds the baby with one arm while using the other to gesture wildly, pointing across continents and seas. Drool drops from the baby’s open smile and takes out the Yucatán Peninsula.

“You’re from everywhere, baby,” Hugo says.

“Or nowhere,” Hana can’t help but add.

Hugo flips the map over and smooths a palm against the blank paper. “Your mama already knows this, but the word utopia means ‘no place.'”

“Maybe that can be his first word. A bit of Ancient Greek.”

Hana scoots closer until her body curls around both Hugo and the baby. Their skin is warm against hers. 

“He’ll be a citizen of utopia.” She brushes her hand against the baby’s head. “A true utopian.”

They breathe in the same air. Maybe the land beneath their feet is shifting, but they are holding on, inhaling, holding on, exhaling. 

The baby squirms. They place him on the map and watch him dig his fingernails into the other side of countries and oceans and borders. He giggles and more drool drips from his chin. 

“He likes it,” Hana says.

Hugo nods. “He knows it’s his.”

Her throat constricts, housing either a laugh or a sob. But she is silent. All she can hear is her baby cooing and paper ripping. 

Here, now, in this place, in this moment, some things are good, or were good, or will be good again. 

*