An alien dropped by the other day. His name was Fred.
He was nice enough, this Fred. As soon as he set down his sparkly craft in my back yard, he slithered out and shook my hand with his tentacle, waving his antennae in the friendliest manner. His English was fine (though he spoke with a vague Swedish accent, and his mandibles seemed to have difficulty properly enunciating the letter “p”), and he asked—ever so politely—if he might come in for a cup of coffee.
I had a little time before the next basketball game, so I invited him in. We chatted at the kitchen table. But before we’d been talking too long, he fixed me with two of his 14 eyes. “So, this thing, America,” he said. “What is it?”
“Baseball, hot dogs, apple pie and Chevrolet,” I almost blurted. Most of us television-watching children of the 1970s and 80s might be prone to do so, just by reflex. But I realized that that wasn’t quite right anymore. Baseball may be our “national pastime,” but it’s not nearly as popular as football. Some Chevrolets are made overseas. Most health-conscious Americans run from hot dogs as if they were flaming German Shepherds. And apple pie? A number of my friends have sworn off it, too. Gluten.
So instead, I just pointed to my television set—the 50-inch, flatscreen monstrosity that looms over our family room like a gleaming, 2001-esque obelisk.
“That,” I said, “is America.” And then I told him about my gig reviewing television for Plugged In.
Consider: Last week, I reviewed The American Bible Challenge. A couple weeks before that, I checked out FX’s The Americans. It was American Horror Story and American Dad last fall, American Ninja Warrior last summer. Plugged In boasts no fewer than 11 television shows branded with the word American or America’s in it. Just that alone suggests that TV sets sold in the United States should all come with red, white and blue bunting.
And when you look at those shows tagged as American, you see that they truly do say something about our culture. Don’t believe me? Yeah, neither did Fred. Until I told him this: Americans love competition. From American Idol to American Ninja Warrior, from America’s Got Talent to America’s Top Model, many of our most American shows are all about winning something—and beating out everyone else to do so. One suspects that Ayn Rand might love these shows: Success, after all, is based on skill and talent. If you’re better than everyone else, you’ll be showered with money. But some blend that meritocracy with democratic principles, too—with winners selected literally by the vote of the people. This is just a continuation of our centuries-old fascination with rags-to-riches story. In America, anything is possible with work and skill. And now, we’ve got our reality shows to prove it.
Americans dig characters with character. The other thing most of these reality shows share is detailing the backstories of the competitors. Rarely is it enough to be good. They’ve got to be worthy: Contestant X cares for his disabled goat. Contestant Y used to live in a shoebox. Contestant Z used to be addicted to rubbing alcohol but has since kicked the habit. Talk all you want about how the country’s morality is not what it once was (and perhaps that’s true), we’re still a deeply moral country. Despite our fascination with antiheroes, we want our winners to be not just good at what they do, but be good doing it. Which brings us to …
Americans are still pretty religious. Sure, rates of unbelief are rising. But the vast majority still believe in God, and a sizable plurality call themselves Christian. Is it coincidence that America is also the most charitable nation on earth, according to some studies? No wonder The American Bible Challenge is the highest-rated show in Game Show Network history. Plucky contestants armed with just their biblical knowledge and emotionally-charged backstories competing to fund their favorite charities? I wonder if regular viewers say the Pledge of Allegiance before watching.
Americans really love themselves. It’s the only explanation I have for the continued success of American Dad. Perhaps viewers are attracted to the titular character, who very much loves himself. Or perhaps the word “American” in the title is just instant ratings gold in and of itself.
Americans wonder whether their neighbors are up to no good. Both AMC’s American Horror Story and FX’s The Americans are predicated on people keeping deep, dark secrets—often with lethal consequences. These shows emphasize that, in the United States, we have the wealth and land to keep secrets: In many countries, privacy is a rarity. People hear, and sometimes see, every move their neighbors make. Here, in our nice suburban dwellings with basements and attics and back yards ripe to bury things in, we don’t necessarily know much about the folks living beside or behind us. And that can make us a bit suspicious.
Americans love our stuff. American Pickers, where two antique dealers sift through the country’s overflowing garages, warehouses and basements for hidden treasures, is perhaps the clearest example of this. But most of the reality shows we’ve talked about here have an underlying consumerist streak going through them, too. After all, contestants don’t dream of investing those $1 million first-place prizes in 401ks, I wouldn’t imagine.
America really is a melting pot. American Idol and America’s Got Talent are, ironically, British imports. American Ninja Warrior came from Japan. We Americans are proud of our culture—but we’ve never been shy about cherry-picking things from others and making them our own. It’s a cliché, I suppose, to say that our diversity is what makes America great. But it’s true nevertheless.
And that’s what I told Fred as I walked him over to the couch and flipped on the television to give him a first-hand (or, rather, first-tentacle) look at what America’s all about.
He’s still there—texting the American Idol hotline every few seconds. I’m gonna have to get the guy to cut down on his TV time.
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