The Outsider

It was a crisp March evening. My best friend and I were enjoying gelato on a corner of San Francisco’s Little Italy when a kind stranger joined us. We traded life stories and music, when suddenly his tone shifted. His expression mirrored that of someone who was grieving. I suppose, in a way, he was. Our friend told us that he had spent 35 years in San Francisco, working at the restaurant we sat in front of. 35 years of life, he poured into this city, and because he was undocumented, he knew that he would soon be forced to leave, either by his hand or by the icy fist of the government. His eyes began to well up as he spoke: “When I leave here, you guys must carry on the legacy.” I asked him what kind of legacy he’d like to leave in the Grey City. He responded, “Leave a legacy of love.”

That night marked me, as I reflect on the ever-changing landscape of the United States. Immigration was the foundation of this nation. Whether you’d like to credit Leif Erikson, Cristobal Colón (Christopher Columbus), or the first Protestants from the Mayflower–the simple truth is that unless you are of native descent–you are an immigrant on Indigenous soil. And so, that begs the question: What does it mean to be “American?” Surely there’s more than a title, for this continent’s namesake comes from the Italian explorer Amerigo. And what of South America? Central too? 

I am a transnational adoptee. Which is a roundabout way to say that I come from foreign lands and that my mother tongue does not belong to my blood. Throughout the course of my life, I’ve grappled with my identity. I feel as though I’ve been truncated from my heritage, and in its place, whether by my own volition, or perhaps encouraged by the squinty eyes kids in my elementary class would make at me–I assimilated. 

To assimilate is to absorb. To incorporate, to imitate. For much of my life, I felt as if I was performing this idea of what it meant to be American. I was taught by society to be ashamed of my roots–that boys would always prefer the bombshell blondes with bright blue eyes over my quietly observant brown ones. I saw how people looked down upon brownness, despite desiring to be tan. An intricate dance of condescension and fetishization. An eternal battle with no end other than subjugation to the order of things.  

The Patriot

There is a brand of arrogance that the United States specializes in. She is blessed with a blissful ignorance so potent that she ignores cries for justice and pleas for help from her oppressed. What many non-white citizens of this nation find infuriating is that this country has always been built on the backs of others. Only deemed American enough should the sweat shine bright enough off their backs. But what does it mean to truly be a patriot? Is it not patriotic, is it not love, to desire a better country? A more perfect union? 

I remember once I went to write, and I saw the bridge lit up in red, white, and blue. I remember how a knot slowly took root in my stomach and how a flood of nausea crept its way through my body. I also remember thinking how I hated that I felt that way. The Stars and Stripes have taken on a multitude of different meanings over the years, and unfortunately, at present, it represents a misguided ideal. It represents how we’ve strayed from our path of being a beacon of hope, a land with a promise that claimed to welcome everyone, so long as you’re willing to put in the work to love her. The land of the free, home of the brave–or have we forgotten that this applies, too, towards the immigrants that washed upon Ellis Island’s shores? That this land also belongs to those seeking refuge behind Lady Liberty? 

The core tenets of this nation itself are adaptations of the French Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité. Liberty, equality, and brotherhood transformed into life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The basis of our great democratic experiment, which is to say the foundation of the States, is rooted in a constant, continual conversation. Congressional Conventions that sprawled across weeks. A constant ebb and flow of balancing power with prudence. A negotiation of what the Founding Fathers wished to see become of our new nation. All of this to say–there must be conflict to purge our country’s original sins, but in the same breath, there must be a desire for resolution and reconciliation, should we move forward. The inevitable confrontation with uncomfortable truths is the pouring of iodine on our wounds–a painful, but necessary step toward our country’s spiritual healing. 

Albert Einstein, an immigrant and brilliant physicist who sought refuge in the U.S. amongst the chaos of Nazi Germany and the Second World War, once said that, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” How we choose to move forward from this stain on our history will define how the U.S. stands in the eyes of the world and the eyes of its people. 

The Heirloom

As an American, I don’t want to watch this country die a slow and agonizing death, with fascism waiting by the bedside. I don’t want to be ashamed of my government when I talk to my international friends. America was never meant to be a finished product, but rather an ongoing dialogue. Forged through the flames of democracy, the voices of the dreamers, the survivors, shaping this nation into one of their likeness. She is a labor of love in which the struggle for justice is synonymous with striving for self-improvement. To see the beauty in our differences is to see the beauty hidden within each one of us. That devotion means listening intently to the tensions that arise from the multiplicity of our voices. Our strength, our charm, comes from hearing the harmonies in our discordance. We must become a mosaic, not a mythical melting pot. A nation that, rather than erasing the uglier tiles of old times past, rearranges them in such a way that reveals wonders yet to be discovered. A new world, a new destiny for us to manifest.

I choose to believe that there is hope for this country, not because she is perfect, but because she is unfinished. And because, like my friend outside of Little Italy said—we must leave a legacy of love. 

That, I think, is the most American thing we can do.

The views, thoughts and opinions expressed in this blog are the author’s only and do not reflect an official position of the University of Minnesota, the Human Rights Program, or the College of Liberal Arts. As an institution of higher education that values and promotes free speech, civil discourse, and human rights we welcome a variety of perspectives and opinions from our student contributors that are consistent with these values.