Scott Bourne An American In Paris
It’s not easy to sum up the man that is Scott Bourne. He’s a maker, a man of great action and a man of even greater words. He’s a writer, a novelist, a poet, a thinker, a fearless believer in oneself and above all, an artist. Yet lingering somewhere behind these many incarnations, Scott is also a professional skateboarder.
Four years ago, Scott fled to France from his long-time residence in San Francisco, seeking solace from an inescapable disenchantment surrounding him in the States. Spending much of his time in utter seclusion, he went on to complete a novel and a collection of poetry, the latter being recently published by one of Scott’s sponsors, Carhartt.
As I corresponded with Scott via phone and e-mail, he was in the process of banging away at a 1930’s typewriter, well on his way to the completion of his second novel. These are his words, laid bare.
What was your upbringing like?
My father was a minister, stern and strong, a truly wonderful human being. To this day he is the only true holy man I have ever known. Even though I do not believe in the god he loved and cherished, I have no doubt that my father is in his heaven now. The human mind is that strong. My mother was a Tennessee girl with deep Southern roots. She needed tall trees, open fields, a garden, fresh food, a rocking chair, her children, her man, and a cold beer on the porch in the evening. My father bought her the small family farm where I was raised and my mama raised up his sons.
When did you move to California? Was it strictly to pursue skateboarding? How long were you there?
I think I was twenty when I went and finally stayed. I never went to California with that kind of dream. I went to escape my history. I was partially embarrassed to be a farm boy and when I left I ran as far as I could get. I felt dirty and I was trying to outrun it. Southern and unforgivably so. Born of bad blood, dirty blood. Some sort of internalised sensation that one is dirty and no matter what he does with himself he will always have this dirty sensation associated with these deep Southern roots. That accent and those half words of which I have worked so hard to dilute, erase, escape, that place, its ways, my homeland... The South! I was raised on ghosts, phantoms, superstition, folklore, moonlight and moonshine... this is what it means to be raised Southern, an un-natural connection with the natural ways of the spirit within and around. To know things you don’t necessarily wanna know, to make up words and give them meaning. A religious howl, a Bible belt, a small Southern church, just a white box below a crucifix. Smashed glass on railroad tracks and a train whistle to take us away.
What brought you to France?
A series of epochs starting with a break-up with a young woman I was very much in love with. I know now that much of that break-up was based around all kinds of world experiences I was having and could not relate to her. I began to fall out of love with America and the one person that I had always been able to relate to was not relating anymore. I took a lot of this out on her in many different ways. As a result... she left me. Good girl, it was well deserved. We had other issues as well but the bottom line was without her there was little to tie me to the States. I packed my bags and left.
You mentioned that you were once a very patriotic American. What led you to abandon that sentiment and leave the country completely?
Americans will buy whatever you sell them. They need no sales pitch. You tell them that George W Bush is president and they say, ‘OK, George W Bush is president’. I mean, come on! The problem is not that George W Bush is the president; the problem is that everyone knows that the elections were rigged and no one protested. ‘The greatest country in the world’ and no one stood up and said, ‘Hey, man! This is criminal!’ They just went back to work. Kept the machine rollin’. They have got you sedated!
I have totally lost faith in the Americans. America is headed for a crash. It’s Machiavellian. It can’t go on. No country can be conquered unless it wants to be conquered. The Americans really look as if they want to be conquered. I have never been against oppressors. The strong survive and flourish, while the weak starve and perish. It’s natural in any species. What I am against and dreadfully against are those who let themselves be oppressed. Those who can’t stand up, won’t stand up or just don’t. Those who are scared to fight, scared to believe, scared to have any meaning worth dieing for... for me it seems natural that these people be oppressed. To me, it’s as if someone were simply taking care of them... giving them orders they could not give themselves. These are the followers and I have always been against followers. Men who have no ideas of their own! Followers are the most dangerous men in the world!.
Before I experienced other parts of the world I was defiantly patriotic. I had nothing to compare America to. For years I kept a folded flag on my pillow at home. I had seen forty-eight out of fifty states by the time I was twenty-one. I love that land, its desert planes and smoky mountain peaks, but the land is not the country. The land is the Earth, now I am her citizen, and when I hear the word ‘America’ I do not think of the land, the country, the Earth I love. I think of a violent government that is doing serious harm to the land, the country and the Earth.
The original story appeared in Huck #011.
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