The Lies They Tell

by Tuvia Tenenbom

That’s the real America, some people tell me. Almost everybody here is a Harley owner, but not all.

  I meet an old couple who don’t ride a Harley but are parents of Harley owners. “My family is from Germany,” the lady tells me, by way of introducing herself. “I’ve never been to Germany but my daughter has. She loved it very much! Until she learned about the Nazis and what they did during the war and she cried out. She couldn’t take it.”

  I tell her I’m German, and she doesn’t feel very comfortable standing next to me anymore. This is the one time in my life that somebody hasn’t liked me because I’m “German.”

  I go to ride on a Harley to compensate for the sting of rejection. Well, it’s not exactly a ride but almost. The Harley I mount is a 2015 model, only its engine is not connected to the wheels. In other words: it makes the noise that will make me feel “masculine”; I can even change gears, but this bike doesn’t move.

  And what noise it makes! I can hardly hear the instructor who’s trying to guide me. “Be careful not to make contact with the pipes; they are extremely hot.”

  Takes me less than a second to find out that the instructor is right.

  What’s the main idea of having a Harley? I ask the instructor, a young lady. Why not other motorbikes, like Honda?

  “Harley is the ultimate freedom,” she says, meaning every syllable.

  Land of the Free.

  For the last few weeks I’ve been asking countless people what it means to be an American, and almost everybody answered with two words: freedom and liberty. Now I know the ultimate meaning of at least the first word: riding a Harley.

  “National Hot Dog Day” is self-explanatory; what’s a Bike Night?

  Here’s how Harley-Davidson officially describes it: “All bikes unite at the Harley-Davidson Museum. Grab your bike. Join other riders for music, fun and plenty of eye candy. Enjoy food and drink specials inside and outside MOTOR Bar & Restaurant including MOTOR Bike Night Koozie Special $2 Miller High Life all season long (Koozies available at The Shop on the Museum campus).”

  I don’t know what Koozies are but I know what food is, and that’s enough.

  The sight in front of me is real eye candy: a sea of Harleys and an ocean of people.

  We are not inside the museum, but outside. We won’t spend this National Hot Dog day in a museum, my dear.

  Most people here are males, most are middle aged, many are way overweight like me, many wear sunglasses and many wear black leather jackets. It’s hot out here, but they wear wintery jackets. They have all kinds of shmontses on their jackets and all kinds of titles, such as “Outlaws,” “Riders” and many others.

  Quite a number of them are smokers and many have tattoos on their skin.

  I approach one man with many tattoos; he has tattoos on almost every visible inch of skin. What do you have there? I ask him.

  He stretches his arms and he explains to me his various tattoos: “A Harley-Davidson logo, two guns. And here I have red and white colors, the colors of America.”

  Should I tell him that these are also the colors of Poland? No; it might destroy his future. Why do you need all of them? I ask him.

  “These are my expressions. What’s important for me in life.”

  His wife stands next to him and listens in.

  Do you like his tattoos? I ask her.

  “They are okay.”

  Do they make him sexier?

  “When I first met him he didn’t have them.”

  From time to time another Harley owner goes to his bike and starts it up; he cranks the gas and makes tremendous sounds. They like noise, these Harleys.

  It is here that I meet Greg, a proud Harley owner, and I ask him to explain to me why Harley owners are so passionate about their machines.

  “It’s hard to explain if you don’t know on your own.”

  Try me.

  “It’s the wind blowing in your face. You get it? Today I was driving 240 miles, just for the love and joy of it.”

  You can have winds blowing right into your face while driving motorbikes made by the Japanese or the Germans. Wouldn’t it be the same?

  “Not the same!”

  Why not?

  “I told you, it’s hard to explain. I tried, but it didn’t work.”

  Try again.

  He points to the hundreds of people surrounding us, almost all wearing one or another kind of Harley merchandise, and says: “Look at them! That’s Harley. No other motorcycle gets people like Harley. It’s a club.”

  How come Harley succeeded in creating this club and other motor companies do not?

  “Look: My father just passed away, and tomorrow it’s his funeral. I bet you that between forty to fifty people will come for the procession with their Harleys. I told only one person about the funeral, and tomorrow is a workday, but people will take off work to join the procession. That’s Harley people. When I see them tomorrow at my father’s funeral, it will be something so special that I will never forget.”

  Are you sure that they will come?

  “I’m sure! That’s the HOG.”

  What’s HOG?

  “Harley Owners Group.”

  Harley marketing fellows are genius.

  “Perhaps they are. Listen: I have five hundred friends. Good friends. All Harley owners. And I can trust them that they will be there when I need them.”

  Describe to me what you felt the first time you owned a Harley, if you don’t mind.

  “I became part of a group. I became part of a family. I gained a family, friends. I was not alone.”

  How well do you know these five hundred Harley owners?

  “Very well. We are one family. There’s something you have to understand: every Harley looks different. You can modify your Harley; the company encourages it. Harley is an expression of who you are, beyond just having a Harley. This also helps in creating a unique club, a family. We all have a Harley at the same time that each of us has a different Harley. No two Harleys are alike.”

  A Harley man and woman sit next to us, neither of whom Greg knows. Not yet. “I don’t know them,” he says to me, “but I can touch them and they won’t feel strange.”

  Let me see!

  Greg lays his hand on the man’s shoulders. “I hope you don’t mind,” he says to him.

  “Not at all,” the guy responds.

  Family.

  Harley-Davidson, don’t laugh here, is also a religion. There’s Christianity, Islam, Judaism, and then there’s Harley-Davidsonism. Its house of prayer is the road, the open road. The main difference between Christianity and Harley-Davidsonism is price. Greg’s bike costs $24,000; curing your depression at the Covenant Church is only fifty-two dollars. The main difference between Islam and Harley-Davidsonism is that Harleys would never fast for thirty days. The main difference between Jews and the Harleys is their loyalty levels. Harleys are loyal.

  There are cheaper bikes than Greg’s and there are much pricier ones as well. It all depends on how devout you are.

  Blessed be thou, Harley-Davidson, who made man happy, loud, showy and passionate.

  • • •

  Friday is German Fest in Milwaukee. Good place to spend the day with the fifty million.

  When I arrive at the Fest the gates are shut. There’s a line of people waiting, and I wait with them.

  Milwaukee is an all-American city, but it started as a German city because most of its early residents were German. That’s what I’m told here. Some people still speak German, but only very few. One man in my line, with a little beard, tries to speak German but what comes out of his lips is Yiddish, not German.

  Is it good to be Jewish in Wisconsin? I ask him.

  “How did you know I’m Jewish?”

  A wild guess. Is it good to be Jewish in Wisconsin?

  “Very good!”

  Be’emes (“really”)? I ask him in Yiddish.

  He’s taken aback by the Yiddish. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says.

  Why not?
You just said that it’s good to be Jewish here, didn’t you?

  “You are not from Wisconsin, right? Enjoy Wisconsin!”

  By your behavior I can tell that it’s not that great to be a Jew here, am I wrong?

  “I don’t want to talk politics!”

  That’s not politics –

  “Maybe another time I’ll tell you. Not now. Leave it.”

  I think he should get himself a Harley.

  Here comes a lady, Eileen, and she’s excited to enter the German world waiting for her behind the gates. She is of German descent and she loves everything German, she says.

  Do you consider yourself German?

  “Part of me is. I speak some German.”

  Talk to me in German.

  “Ich liebe dich [I love you].”

  Give me more!

  “Auf Wiedersehen.”

  More!

  “That’s all I know.”

  And this makes you German?

  “It’s not just the language. I feel German.”

  What does that mean?

  “How should I put it? I like the German character.”

  What’s the German character?

  She thinks but can’t come up with anything. She thinks more, and more, and more, and finally she says: “This one is hard. I have to think about it.”

  The gates open and all enter. First, I go to the stage. Yes, there’s a stage here. German Fest is not just about food, it’s also about spirituality.

  Flanked by many German flags, a nicely dressed man delivers the opening speech in both German and English. He ends his speech: “In the name of the Holy Son, Jesus Christ, Amen.” The audience erupts in applause.

  Done with Jesus, they sing “I’m proud to be an American” (“God Bless the USA”) as a large group of US Navy soldiers, who are on active duty and are here as official guests, sit as one just below the stage and seemingly enjoy every moment of being here.

  There’s more and more talk on the stage and then the choir ends the ceremony by singing “Ich liebe die Heimat” (I love the homeland) and “America the Beautiful.”

  In the Germany of today you are not likely to see Germans singing, “I’m proud to be a German.” But we are in America, and Americans are proud to be American and its Germans are proud to be Americans.

  The navy sailors get up to leave, and audience members approach them to shake their hands in a warm display of love and admiration. The sailors suck up every drop of love for all it’s worth.

  Should I try to interview the mayor, and see if this city is as corrupt as Chicago? Nope. I don’t really care.

  • • •

  I get into my Malibu, and I drive. On potholes that never end. After some driving I stop in Dodgeville, Wisconsin, where I meet Dan, who works for a nonprofit art organization in the area. When I tell him that I’m from Germany he takes a liking to me, and he opens his heart to this German.

  A man’s got to unload the pains in his heart to a visiting German. Israel, he tells me, is “shooting rockets on the Palestinians,” but America won’t stop it, and this upsets him. “American foreign policy is hypocritical. Should I say more?” he asks.

  The Arab-Israeli conflict is on his mind, but he doesn’t care a flying s--t (shit) about Englewood.

  “Where should I start?” he goes on. “With what Israel is doing? We have a double standard here. If you criticize Israel, you’ll be labeled anti-Semitic. But, come on! How much more racist can a country be?! What Israel is doing is criminal, Israel is committing injustice, and we are supporting them; we give them millions of dollars every year. Eight hundred million dollars every year. Why? I wish we stopped this. How many settlements are there? Is anybody counting? The Israelis keep building settlements, and we finance them. This makes me mad.”

  You are very passionate about the Middle East conflict, aren’t you?

  “Yes, I am.”

  Are you Muslim, Jewish?

  “I’m an atheist. Not exactly. I wouldn’t call myself atheist. I am a God hater. What do you call that?”

  Why would anybody in Dodgeville have such strong feelings about that faraway country? I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m happy I didn’t say that I’m Jewish.

  • • •

  Malibu is also very happy today and drives really fast into places whose names only God knows – mostly private properties. This is how I get to meet Andrea, a hunt club manager in Spring Green, Wisconsin.

  I should have this job: “hunt club manager.”

  Andrea, a thirty-year-old lady, also takes care of the huge private property Malibu and I have driven into, where, among other things, she rides her two horses, sometimes for eight hours a day but usually only two. She is a “spiritual” Christian, as she defines herself; she believes in Jesus but does not attend church services. She loves the countryside, loves nature and she carries a pistol, a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard 380, which has a laser.

  How much does this toy cost? I ask her.

  “Four hundred and fifty dollars. If you point the laser at a person, that should be enough to scare him.”

  Have you ever done it?

  “Fortunately not.”

  The reason some people are against guns, she tells me, is that “they are not educated about guns.”

  I want to be educated. I love education. May I use your gun? I ask her.

  “Ever shot a handgun?”

  Not yet.

  “Let me show you how this works.”

  She shoots in the air. And then hands me the gun. Loaded. I point at an imaginary bear and I shoot it. And then one more time, at another bear, just to make sure I have enough meat for the week.

  To be honest, I have shot before, mostly tank shells while I served in the Israeli army, but I never shot a pistol.

  It’s a thrill, I tell her. It makes me feel like a powerful entity. I’m like a God. I can take away or grant life.

  “This is what I meant when I talked about education. Guns are not about killing people, guns are for protection and for hunting. The other thing about guns: owning a gun is a right, a constitutional right, and that’s why I own a gun. Guns are not about shooting people, unless you are in extreme circumstances when your life is in danger. People have to educate themselves about guns. Here in the country I need a gun, not just for hunting.”

  Not only Americans hunt, and not only Americans can own guns. But in the United States, the issue of owning guns is more than just about the right to hunt. Here, in America, it seems to me that there is an emotional attachment to guns – either by those who are anti or those who are pro.

  Are you emotionally attached to guns?

  “The only emotional part of the gun for me is if I have a right to own them or not. My husband and I own at least one hundred guns. Pistols, shotguns and rifles. There is a sentimental attachment to guns because they have been passed down from generation to generation. No different than a grandmother’s ring. It’s a very sentimental thing. Does that explain it better for you?”

  No.

  “Why not?”

  You’re a thirty-year-old lady and you need one hundred guns?

  “How many shoes you have?”

  You didn’t get me there. I have only three pairs.

  “Part of the reason we have that many guns is because of the way the government is going for the past few years.”

  Are you talking about Obama?

  “Yes.”

  You don’t like the guy?

  “No. When he got voted in a lot of the anti-gun stuff started going on. The price of guns went up, the price of bullets went up, and with it the talk of outlawing certain accessories. When all that happened, we started hoarding.”

  But why do you need one hundred?

  “It’s a personal thing.”

  One hundred??

  “Guns are not cookie cutters. Guns are different. Some are with laser, some not. And many other differences. It’s a right! We have a right to own one, a lot, or one hundred. You a
sk me why; I ask you, why not?”

  I have a right to buy and own one hundred cars, but I don’t. Why do you have so many guns?

  “It’s somehow hard to talk about, but I truly believe that it all comes down to culture. That’s how it all started. A lot of the guns we have now happened in the last five, six years. And what I’m getting to is, politically the country is getting split and I think it’s going to be a conflict in this country, and we are stockpiling guns and ammunitions. We had a civil war before, and we can have it again. I’m not saying I walk around and think about it every day. But am I prepared for the next war? Yes.”

  Is your gun hoarding some kind of a political statement?

  “I tried not to take it there, but yes.”

  What do you think of the black-white issue in America?

  “I think it’s not an issue other than what the blacks are making of it. If you look at statistics, more cops shot white people than black people, but if you watch the media you only see white cops shooting black people.”

  And why is the media doing this?

  “That’s a good question.”

  What do you think?

  “Hard to say. I don’t know if it’s just a trend the media is rolling on, or a bias. I truly believe that the news is biased and that they tell you what they want you to hear. There is a freedom of speech, that’s our right, but you have to be very careful what you say. We, the white people, feel almost like we are becoming the minority and we truly feel that we have to be very careful what we say. But at some point enough will be enough and a war will happen. It will explode at some point. Liberals are doing what they want: abortions, gay rights, anti-gun legislation, and we have to bite our tongues. It will not last forever. We don’t talk but we are preparing, we are analyzing, and when something happens we will be prepared. But at this point we are very careful what we say, choosing our words wisely.”

  Andrea has other issues with the government and its laws. “I don’t wear seat belts,” she says. “Why is the government getting involved in people’s lives and telling them that they have to live until they are one hundred years old?”

  Were Andrea not a woman, and had she lived a couple of centuries ago, she would be one of the Founding Fathers. She is exactly what I pictured a Founding Father to be while I was in Pennsylvania. She and they are cut of the same cloth, a piece of the same stone, a drop of the same blood and they share the same soul. But no hair grows on her chin, and she is two centuries late.