I’ve never been to the United States. Never had a pumpkin spice latte, five guys hamburger, and Raising Cane’s triple combo chicken with the special 6-dollar sauce, also crumble cookies. Never tailgated outside a football game. Never seen Mount Rushmore, unless you count that one time it dramatically appeared behind Nicolas Cage in National Treasure (cinematic masterpiece, by the way).

But despite my lack of real-world American experience, I recently stumbled upon something so bizarre, so weirdly patriotic, and so aggressively on brand for America that I had to double-check it wasn’t an AI-generated fever dream:

The Graveyard of President Statues

Let’s set the scene.

Somewhere in Virginia,  specifically, a random field that looks like the kind of place you’d find after taking a wrong turn in a Scooby-Doo episode,  there stand 43 enormous concrete heads of former U.S. presidents. Weather-beaten. Cracked. Staring into the void like they’ve just been informed the Wi-Fi is down indefinitely.

It’s eerie. It’s confusing. It’s giving “Mount Rushmore’s chaotic cousin who lives off the grid and has a conspiracy blog.”

And here’s the kicker: no one planned it this way.

These colossal busts were originally part of President’s Park, a patriotic theme park that tried to make “walking among the stern faces of America’s leaders” a fun family day out. Spoiler alert: it was not. The park flopped harder than a presidential campaign with no snacks. Bankruptcy hit. The busts were doomed.

Enter: Howard Hankins. Construction guy turned accidental art preservationist. He decided these heads deserved a second chance. So, in a feat of Herculean effort involving cranes, flatbeds, and probably a lot of shouting, he moved all 43 statues to his private land. Just... to keep them. Like Pokémon. Giant, crumbling, historically significant Pokémon.

And that’s how this strange graveyard came to be.

Now they sit quietly, ominously,  in a forgotten field. Not as an exhibit. Not as a museum. Just... there. Like America’s most unsettling yard sale.

Naturally, I became obsessed.

I spent hours Googling. Read every article. Watched shaky handheld videos on YouTube narrated by people who absolutely believed Lincoln blinked at them. My search history now includes “Can concrete hear your thoughts?” and “How tall was James Madison IRL.”

The more I learned, the more invested I became. Because honestly? The whole thing is accidentally poetic.

Each head is massive, around 20 feet tall, and completely falling apart. Water damage, cracks, erosion. Nixon is missing the back of his skull. Reagan’s face is sliding off. Pieces of George W. Bush’s neck are just… gone. It’s like someone asked, “What if American history, but horrorcore?”

And yet, it’s beautiful.

Not in the way sunsets or perfectly symmetrical avocado toast are beautiful. But in the way forgotten things sometimes are. These statues were once symbols of power and dignity. Now they’re just... decaying hunks of stone in the middle of nowhere. And somehow, that makes them feel more honest. More human. More “president after two terms and a stress ulcer.”

What sells it for me is the vibe. From everything I’ve imagined (again, haven’t been there tragically), this place gives off serious haunted theme park energy.

In my mind:

There’s always mist. Like, always. If it’s not foggy, you’re in the wrong field.

A single raven sits on Nixon’s forehead. He does not blink.

Lincoln looks like he knows your secrets.

Thomas Jefferson’s expression reads: “You’re doing that with your life?” And honestly, that tracks.

And somewhere near the back, poor Jimmy Carter is just vibing. He never asked for any of this.

It’s like America decided, “What if we made our past even more unsettling by putting it in a horror movie set?” and then… accidentally nailed it.

The weirdest part? You can visit. But only by booking a private tour. That means there are actual people out there regular humans willingly handing over money to be escorted into a field full of massive, deteriorating heads with no necks and major judgmental energy. And I respect those people. They are my people. I want to be one of them.

I’ve imagined what it would be like to go. I’d show up in entirely the wrong shoes. I’d pretend not to be nervous but trip over a root and land face-first in mud. I’d pose dramatically in front of LBJ like I’m about to drop the hottest mixtape of 2025. And then I’d quietly spiral when I realize I’m emotionally connecting with Theodore Roosevelt’s mossy left cheekbone.

And you know what? That sounds like a perfect day.

Because this place, this bizarre graveyard of forgotten ambition and failed theme park dreams, somehow feels… right. In a world obsessed with perfection, polish, and filters, there’s something deeply comforting about 43 enormous heads slowly falling apart in a field. They’re not being maintained. They’re not trending. They’re just existing. Cracked, tired, a little broken, but still standing.

Which, if we’re being honest, feels a little too relatable.

So no, I’ve never been to the U.S. I’ve never stood beneath the Statue of Liberty, never eaten diner pie at 2 a.m., never yelled “road trip!” while driving on the wrong side of the road.

But thanks to the Graveyard of President Statues, I feel like I’ve seen something very American.

Not the shiny, fireworks-on-the-Fourth-of-July kind. But the weird, forgotten, slightly eerie side. The one that says, “Sure, this looks cursed, but it’s got character.”

And to me, that’s even better.

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