An Immigrant’s Search for What It Means to Be American

Defining my American identity through personal experience

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I was 25 years old when I first set foot on American soil, carrying only a single suitcase, two hundred dollars, and a head full of dreams.

It was 2003, and the air hummed with a peculiar mix of post-9/11 paranoia and the relentless optimism that seems baked into the country’s DNA. I remember thinking, “This is it. This is where I become an American.”

Little did I know that “becoming American” would be a journey far more complicated than simply crossing a border or taking an oath of citizenship.

Fast forward to July 4th, 2005.

I’d been in the country for two years and was invited to an Independence Day barbecue in Pelham Park, Bronx. Imagine a Norman Rockwell painting coming to life, with star-spangled banners and enough potato salad to feed a small army.

There I stood, paper plate in hand, eagerly awaiting my turn for a cheeseburger, when I heard it — a stage whisper from Mrs. Evans, the neighborhood busybody: “Oh, how wonderful that she’s embracing our traditions! Will she be serving any of her… ethnic food?”

My cheeks burned as I pretended not to hear, suddenly aware that my presence was seen as a novelty, a splash of exotic flavor in an otherwise homogeneous dish.

That moment, standing in the scorching sun with the scent of grilled meat in the air and the distant pop of firecrackers, was when I truly understood that being American wasn’t just about legal status or length of residency. It was something more elusive, a secret handshake I hadn’t quite mastered.

The Paradox of American Identity

Nearly two decades later, with a U.S. passport in my pocket and an American twang creeping into my accent, I’m still grappling with that same question: Will I ever be considered truly American?

It’s a doubt that lingers for countless immigrants, an invisible burden carried by those who’ve encountered the thinly veiled, “But where are you really from?”

According to a 2021 Pew Research Center study, about 14% of the U.S. population is foreign-born.

That’s about 45 million people — more than the entire population of Canada — each grappling with some version of my previous Fourth of July question.

But here’s where it gets interesting — The same study found that 20% of Americans say that to be “truly American,” a person must have been born in the United States.

Which begs the question: what about the other 80%? What are their criteria?

A fondness for pumpkin spice lattes?

Can you recite all fifty states alphabetically while chugging a Bud Light?

Tale of Two Americans: Rahul vs. Brittany

The truth is, ‘American-ness’ is as challenging to define as jazz — you know it when you hear it, but good luck explaining it. It’s a shape-shifter, a chameleon that changes color depending on who’s looking at it.

And for those of us perpetually on the outside looking in, it can feel like chasing a mirage in the desert — always just out of reach, no matter how fast we run.

Take my friend Rahul, for example. Born and raised in Milwaukee, Rahul is as American as cheese curds and disappointed in the Packers’ playoff performance. He speaks with a Midwestern twang thick enough to spread on toast, and his knowledge of obscure state fairs is encyclopedic. Yet, at least once a week, someone compliments him on his “excellent English” or asks which part of India he’s from.

On the flip side, there’s my colleague, Brittany. Blonde-haired and blue-eyed, Brittany could be the poster child for Middle America. She’s never been asked about her “real” origins, even though she was born in Norway and didn’t become a U.S. citizen until she was 34.

The disparity between Rahul and Brittany’s experiences highlights an uncomfortable truth: for many, “American-ness” is still intrinsically linked to a ‘certain’ look, a particular phenotype that screams “I descended from the Mayflower” (ignoring, of course, the fact that everyone on the Mayflower was, by definition, an immigrant).

This perception isn’t just subjective. A 2019 study found that Americans tend to mentally represent their national identity with the image of a white person, even when presented with information about the nation’s diversity.

The Fundamental Need for Belonging

Because this isn’t just about looks or language or the ability to name all the presidents in order (admit it, you’d struggle after the first 10). It’s about something far more fundamental: belonging.

Psychologists have long recognized belonging as a basic human need, right up there with food, water, and WiFi (okay, maybe not that last one, but you get the point). We are hardwired to seek acceptance and to want to be part of the in-group.

And in a nation that prides itself on being a melting pot (or a salad bowl, or a cultural mosaic, or whatever food-based metaphor is currently in vogue), the question of who belongs can be particularly fraught.

As a woman navigating this landscape, I’ve found that gender adds yet another layer to the complexity of American identity. There’s a unique intersection between being a woman and being an immigrant — double othering if you will.

It’s in the way people assume I’m submissive or traditional because of where I’m from or the surprise on their faces when I assert myself in a meeting. It’s in the constant pressure to be a “model minority,” to work twice as hard to prove I belong here.

So, where does that leave those of us perpetually caught in the limbo of “almost American, but not quite”? How do we navigate a landscape where our citizenship is unquestioned, but our American-ness is constantly up for debate?

I propose a radical idea: what if we flipped the script entirely? Instead of asking, “Will I ever be considered American enough?” what if we asked, “Is America ready to expand its definition of American-ness?”

Because here’s the thing — America has always been in a state of becoming. This nation has been an experiment, a work in progress since its inception. The America of today would be unrecognizable to its founders and thank goodness for that.

We’ve expanded our understanding of who can be a citizen, vote, and marry. Why not expand our understanding of who can be considered truly American?

This isn’t just feel-good kumbaya talk. It’s an economic necessity. In an increasingly globalized world, America’s diversity is its superpower. A 2019 study by New American Economy found that 45% of Fortune 500 companies were founded by immigrants or their children. That’s nearly half of America’s most successful businesses, created by people who might not pass the “Are you really American” test at a neighborhood barbecue.

So, what’s the path forward? How do we bridge the gap between the America that is and the America that could be? I humbly suggest a few strategies:

• Welcome the Hyphen: Instead of seeing hyphenated identities as diluted versions of American-ness, recognize them as uniquely American expressions of identity.

• Rewrite the Narrative: Challenge media representations of what an “American” looks like. Demand diversity not just in front of the camera but behind it, too.

• Education, Education, Education: Push for curricula that reflect American history’s and contemporary society’s true diversity.

• Call It Out: When you hear someone question another person’s American-ness based on their appearance, accent, or name, speak up. Be an ally.

• Celebrate Complexity: Recognize that American identity, like all identities, is multifaceted and ever-evolving. There’s no one way to be American.
  

Claiming My American Identity

As for me, I’ve come to realize that my American-ness isn’t defined by how others see me but by how I see myself. It’s in the way I tear up a little every time I hear the National Anthem at a ballgame (even though I still don’t understand the rules of baseball).

It’s in my fierce defense of the Oxford comma and my borderline religious devotion to brunch. It’s in how I complain about taxes while simultaneously being grateful for public libraries.

It’s also in the memory of that crisp autumn day when I stood in a crowded room, my voice cracking with emotion, as I swore an oath to protect and defend this country.

As the words “I hereby declare, on oath” left my lips, I found myself unexpectedly sobbing — not out of fear or regret, but from an overwhelming sense of belonging and responsibility.

At that moment, with tears streaming down my face and my right hand raised, I wasn’t just becoming a citizen on paper. I was accepting a personal truth: This is my home, and I am as American as anyone born on this soil.

Will I ever be considered American by every person I meet? Probably not. But I’ve realized that’s okay. Because being American isn’t about fitting into someone else’s definition — it’s about continuously redefining what America can be.

So the next time someone asks me where I’m really from, I think I’ll smile and say, “I’m from here. I’m an American woman, shaped by my journey from there to here. Where are you from?” And then I’ll invite them over for a barbecue. I’ll even serve some of my “ethnic food” alongside the apple pie.

After all, isn’t that mix of flavors and traditions the most American thing?

Thank you so much for reading.

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