“Look,” said Whiskey Jack. “This is not a good country for gods. My people figured that out early on.”
Neil Gaiman’s stories are always unreal, but it’s the sort of unreal that is hidden just beneath the surface of what is real.
The pagan gods require blood and sacrifice. Something about faith requires giving up the best of yourself, or the best of your community. Are you supposed to grieve for the young tributes? Or does gratitude for the god’s protection overcome the grief? Ritual is important. Oaths are important.
Why would America be a bad country for gods? They represent seasons and uncertainty. We have seasons and uncertainty in North America. Whiskey Jack continues:
“So, yeah, my people figured out that maybe there’s something at the back of it all, a creator, a great spirit, and so we say thank you to it, because it’s always good to say thank you. But we never built churches. We didn’t need too. The land was the church. The land was the religion. The land was older and wiser than the people who walked on it.”
So why is the land America different from the land in Europe and Africa?
The story of American Gods is that old-world gods are going to war with new-world gods. People created the old gods to protect them from winter and starvation. The new gods, gods of roads and cities and electronics, protect people from seasons and uncertainty. It’s about the power to protect oneself from death, whether the death comes from climate or economic hardship or the failure to have children. That’s why all the gods are so physical. Gaiman describes their bodily functions in great detail.
But in America, the land cannot be tamed or controlled by gods. Maybe it’s because this country- as in government- was formed in an enlightened age. By the 18th century, men believed they could measure and manipulate and contain they physical world. They were developing science and medicine, so darkness didn’t scare them.
When I try to comprehend a fundamental difference between the United States and other countries, I think of the highway stretching west and that feeling of open space. When our current cities become too cramped for our ambitions, we move West, chasing the freedom to try (and fail). That kind of arrogance has no need of reverence for an old, bloodthirsty god.
We fool ourselves, though. The drive to innovate, to leave the old behind cannot eliminate death or the messy body functions necessary for life. We just try to ignore them or sanitize them. But our love for sanitation takes its toll, like the car-gods :
a powerful, serious-faced contingent, with blood on their black gloves and on their chrome teeth: recipients of human sacrifice on a scale undreamed-of since the Aztecs.
American Gods was published in 2001. I wonder what the newest gods of social media and the internet of things and mindfulness and kale are like. How do they claim their blood sacrifices? Maybe we’ll find out in the TV show.