Independence Day

America and I have a complicated relationship. 

I wasn't born here,  I wasn't raised here,  but I am "from"  here. 

I guess it is like my motherland.  And sometimes I have "mommy issues". 

Don't get me wrong,  I love this country.  It is where I choose to make my home,  where I met my wonderful,  red blooded,  American husband, where my sisters and nephews were born. 

I love the foundations we were built on.  Freedom from tyranny and inalienable human rights are a couple of my personal favorites. 

But I struggle sometimes. With feeling at home here.  With feeling pride in how Americans are perceived on the world stage. With the American public and our fickle,  often ignorant,  herd mentality. 

I cringe at the failures of the public education system,  of generations of dependency and entitlement spiraling toward a nanny-state oblivion. Probably. 

Not everyone will agree with me.  Perhaps some people will be offended by what I say.  Well one of those beautiful rights that we still have is the right to freedom of speech.  So I respect the disagreement and I would never want to silence it. 

When I was a child that didn't understand "nationality"  or "cultural heritage"  I remember being confused about what made my friends Japanese,  Okinawan,  Australian,  Swiss,  Indian,  Brazilian, Philipino, Chinese, American.  We all went to the same school,  understood a couple of languages, prayed to Jesus (even the kids from Hindu and Buddhist and Shinto families did).

Everyone looked different,  there was so much variety of skin color and eye color and hair type that we looked like an ad campaign for United Colors of Benneton. 

We said the pledge of allegiance to the American flag,  the Christian flag,  and we stood for both the U. S.  national anthem and the Japanese national anthem.

But we were different,  and we were supposed to understand and know our identities.

I was American.  Everyone said so.  The other blond girl in first grade was Australian.  We looked the most alike,  so looks must not be it. 

I spoke the English at home,  but so did a Swiss girl and a Philipino girl and a bunch of "half" kids.  Language wasn't it. 

I could go on base, but I didn't live there.  And the American missionaries that worked at the school couldn't go on base,  except for one- and she lived on base.

Some kids parents were base employees, so they could go on even though they weren't American. Base privileges aren't a good way to identify an American.

My best friend is American.  She was born in California to a Brazilian mother and an Okinawan father who were here on student visas.  She speaks like four languages.  She lived off base like me and we went to church together on base. 
She isn't just American,  she is now an American hero serving in our Armed Forces.  Genetics don't make you American.

I was born in Scotland while my dad was a contractor for the Royal Air Force in the service of the Queen.  My mom was adopted out of Germany by an American family.  My parents are American,  so I am American. 

Technically,  I could be British if I wanted to. 

But my American parents made sure that I had the paperwork to be an American. 

So I am American. 

My home is here,  and when I go out to the grocery store,  I can look around and see all of the other Americans and know that they accept me as one of theirs. 

So even if we don't see eye to eye on everything,  I accept them as my people. 

MY loud, laughing, pushy, bold, unashamed,  joyful, argumentative, warm,  persistent, capitalist,  demanding,  accepting people.

Happy Independence from the British Day.