Am I American?

 

Daniel Nunes

 

 

            What does it mean to be American?  What does the word “American” mean?  If I say I am American, does that mean I am obligated to fight for America in a war?  Does that mean I would not do anything against this country?  How permanent is my status of being an American?  When asked, I always say I am American, based on the fact that I was born here and that is what my birth certificate is supposed to prove.  But then why don’t I also say that I am also Mexican and Indian, as my upbringings and family have been more of these cultures than of American culture?

 

            Until college, I had lived in Michigan all my life.  Visiting Canadian friends the twenty-minute drive away was a regular family outing.  My mother usually had the task of driving through Customs, as she, though the child of Mexican immigrants, spoke without an accent.

 

            “Citizenship?”  The customs official would ask.

 

            “U.S.”  My mother would reply.

 

            “All four of you?”  Was the typical response, as the official would look directly at my dad, whose physical features do not hide the fact that he was born in India.

 

            “Yes,”  My mother would reply, as she handed over the proper paperwork.

 

            It was not until the age of eight that I wondered enough to ask my mom why she did not reply “American” to the customs official’s question.  She responded that the term “American” is vague.  A person from Canada has an equal right to identify himself or herself with the term that reflects the name of our shared continent.  Using the term “U.S.” is both true and specific.  My mother’s opinion is just one of the many views that exist on the term.

 

As I grew up, I began with a very chauvinistic pride in my birth country.  People from Canada were “Canadians” and people from the United States deserved the term “American.”  I then pondered the fact that my mother proved our “U.S.” citizenship with a packet of papers.  Even at this young age, I wondered why, if so many people want to be American, don’t they just make copies of these papers from an American friend?

 

As time went on, I learned that being an American means more than being from this continent or having certain papers.  When I was nine years old, my family increased its involvement in cultural communities.  We had monthly gatherings and celebrations with people from each of my heritages.  I learned of quincinieras, fiestas, enchiladas, and quesadillas, bhangras, henna, japatis, and dhal.  Every so often, I would take part in cultural demonstrations for the comunity to educate them in our traditions.  I even played the groom once in a staged Hindu wedding.  Try explaining to a girlfriend that you were once married for educational purposes!  We made several family trips to both India and Mexico where I met my extended family and experienced a sense of home among them.  While I saw American children receiving gifts from their grandparents who lived down the road, it was not until I was in my parents’ respective countries that I was able to experience having an extended family.  I further wondered if I really was American or if I should just be identifying as Mexican and Indian.

 

When people notice my multicultural roots they frequently ask me what I consider myself and how being a child of mixed heritages has affected me.  If it were not for my parents’ guidance, I could not have a proper answer for this type of question.  I have them to thank for their meticulous care that I be exposed to my heritage.  Our family cultural activities not only helped me to realize the lifestyles of my relatives, but to understand that my own lifestyle varied from that of the other “American” children in my predominantly white neighborhood.  Even I have adopted society’s perception of a stereotypical American as the tall, blonde Caucasian.

           

Often, the objects of my “show-and-tell” time in school were items brought back from the family trips to Mexico or India.  While other students would bring in their pets or toys, I would have a sombrero or monsoon boots.  I often longed to be normal, to have bologna sandwiches for lunch, to have grandparents watching after me, and to lose my birth-given skin color, though my parents always insisted I pride myself on these things.  I obeyed, though I realized that the children in my predominantly Caucasian school were not the same.

           

I think back at my narrow-minded view of Americans when I asked my mom about her response to the customs official, and how much easier it would be if I was able to maintain that definition.  I would not have to worry about the contradictions that would arise if I identified as “American.”

           

The first time I had to actually decide on a cultural identity was on my first standardized test.  Given the choices of Caucasian, African-American, Hispanic, Native American, Asian, and Other, with the option of penciling in only one bubble, I colored in the only one that I fit, “other.”  I have yet to see a standardized test with the option of selecting a Mexican-American-Indian mix.  Not only do I have to deal with being grouped in as an extra that does not fit on a statistical curve, but I also have to face the adversary and prejudice that accompanies being outside the mainstream population.

 

When I was accepted to MIT, many who knew me to be part Mexican concluded that my acceptance was only due to affirmative action.  Others concluded that my dad, being Indian, probably pulled strings for me to get in.  Both stories are untrue.  When I’m placed in such a situation, I tend to doubt my identification as “American.” Why should I consider myself American if others do not?  Such situations often make me wish I could identify as a foreigner, just to settle social differences, but my lifestyle is far too American to even consider such an alternative.  I feel caught on a middle ground.

 

With the recent terrorist events, more people from foreign countries have looked to extend their sympathy to the Americans, using the term in reference to the single body of all those people living inside the United States.  America, as a whole, has seemingly put aside differences, uniting as a common body against terrorism.  An individual of Arab-American descent, however, can not make it through customs in the same way that an American of another ethnicity can.  Even in a state of greater unity, Americans cannot realize the fact that the term “American” has come to apply to individuals of other skin colors and backgrounds.

 

Ever since Columbus’ arrival in the Americas, the continent was viewed as one land of outsiders.  To the English, there were the English and the outcasts.  Similarly, to the French, the New Land was mainly a source of promise to the lower classes of society.  Now America is the land creating the outsiders.  The original notion of America as a melting pot for foreign cultures has been lost.  I often feel that the source of some of my alienation from American culture occurs as a result of my physical deviance from the stereotypical American.

           

My cultural identification is more that just having a paper that certifies my citizenship and more than the acceptance within society.  Because I am born in America, I am American.  It is my culture, not my citizenship, that allows me to enjoy rice and curry for lunch or bear my olive skin color.  Me and the 72% of American children not of Caucasian descent struggle to be “American” every day.