Baudrillard Wins: On the Bitterness of American Hyperreality

Jean Baudrillard wins in the end. He doesn’t win in glory; in triumph he does not conquer. Jean Baudrillard wins conceptually. He wins because American television wins. The portrayal of the portrayal of the American dream subsumes all other dreams. The mere image of the idea of America — of eating cheeseburgers, drinking milkshakes — is so powerful that people leave behind their dysfunctional families and useless educations, like I left my education obtained in England and dysfunctional family in Poland, to come here and commit to a life of loneliness, isolation, and drugs.

I sell my body for free just to appear more American. I give up the ideals that no one had ever taught me in order to be here, family-less, identity-less; alone at a fancy, modern co-working space with a Wabi-Sabi decor, a ton of light and a spacious interior; alone in a hot yoga studio; alone writing in a park or on the street with 10 million people breathing down my neck; alone on the track when I run with other runners; alone.

For… I am running everywhere. I have done so many jobs I don’t even remember them all, I spent so many sleepless nights dreaming of the NOW that never comes, that when I do sleep I am haunted by nightmares. Nightmares of my burglar’s past. The Devil comes for me over and over again, but Modeh Ani,[1] the soul keeps coming back. I am alone and I judge mother when I say I don’t want to be like her. I cry when I see her pale, dry face, but the tears dry up fast because I don’t really know the woman left in the Old Country.

Baudrillard wins. I came to America because I want to be like those few Americans I had met earlier, those who are either chubby and satisfied in Manhattan, or skinny and drugged up Brooklyn. Both options seem very appealing to me. I am longing for the happy father and beautiful mother until the confidence I exude when I pretend to be one of them eventually sticks and I become of us. How dare I whine?

America, you are filled with immigrants! You were conceived by people like me, hard-working, determined, and shady — those brave and strong for whom something didn’t quite work out on another continent, or who, escaping, came here looking for luck. They had nothing to lose, no one to love, no dreams left. But here? Oh, here everything is possible, as the TV and Facebook status claim.

So I came, too, but no programming ever mentioned PTSD, sadness, and that I’d be stuck in a city of rats and drug and alcohol abusers. No Instagram story warned me I’d walk in the shadows of Baby Boomer greatness, which follows me on every corner, alley, and basement. Monsieur Baudrillard, you pompous French prick. I came anyway, because I know there is nothing better than this, Monsieur Baudrillard, you pompous French prick; you got it right, and that is why you win. You didn’t have the balls to do this, because not many have. You prefer to sit on your shit throne and judge, like all your fucking European brothers, but I am not one of you anymore.

With all its plasticity, food sometimes tastes like the taste it’s supposed to evoke rather than the taste itself; with all the fillers in women’s lips and asses; with green Benjamins on paper, more powerful than any PhD (shit they could buy your goddamn PhD); with the phony nouveau riche ignoramuses; with skyscrapers challenging the mythical Babel, finally fulfilling its God-daring purpose; this vast land of thieves, liars, and rapists; this place where one Las Vegas trade show’s AC uses up a decade of the country’s air; this American shithole is still better than your French shithole.

It is because this American dream, with all its imperfections — whether you like, Mr. Baudrillard, or you don’t, America, and New York City, the world’s epicenter — it is part of the evolution; there is nothing better. My broken heart (already broken due to a pre-existing condition), prone to pain and disappointment, was worth sacrificing for this hyperreal simulacra Twitter dream, so you, Mr. Baudrilard, can go ahead and suck your French dick. America wins.

Notes