On Being American

While waiting for my flight from Johannesburg to Atlanta I was, for the first time since leaving the US five months ago, surrounded by Americans. I sat in front of Gate 6 and played anthropologist, although unlike a good scientist I could not refrain from passing judgement. I watched families and couples, wearing safari hats and khaki shorts with sneakers, carrying kitchy souvenirs from the airport shop, talking in twangy accents about what they'd seen at the South African game lodges. Most of the travelers were pudgy, loud, and overly critical of everything that was not up to par with their comfortable lives back in Arkansas or Nevada.

I am different from them, I thought to myself. I am somehow better because I live in Mozambique, speak the local language, have traveled around the world, live modestly, am not a tourist, am aware of history and geography, don't wear socks and sneakers with shorts. I am not like them. I'm New Mexican. New Mexico has culture and its residents are bilingual. My family is Italian. I studied in Rio de Janeiro. My mind was on the defensive, searching for any and all justifications to illustrate that I was not just one of the flock. How dare anyone confuse me with this mass of stereotypical Americans?

I am, however, no better than any of the people waiting with me in front of Gate 6. Deep down I know this, but in my insecurity it is easy to forget. We are all American, each one of us a unique manifestation of the positive and negative attributes of our culture, our heritage, our surroundings. Being around a large group of my compatriots, especially when I'm in "international mode", awakens the deep shame of being American I've struggled with for years. It is not a reaction that I admire in myself. In fact, it brings out in me the same arrogance and feeling of superiority that I so criticize in my fellow countrymen.

What a hypocrite I can be. Some of the people, places, and things I love the most in this world are American...my family, my friends that are passionate fighters of the good fight, free speech, entrepreneurial spirit, road trips, sunsets in Albuquerque, kayaking in Austin, shopping in San Francisco.

Even more perverse is the fact that I am an ardent defender of the US when on foreign soil. I can feel my blood boil when people in other countries start to criticize America with arguments wholly based in stereotype. I turn into a crusader, out to prove to any and all that we are more than McDonald's, Republicans, ignorance about world events, obesity, oil, and unfortunate government policies. I conjure up all of the examples I can to prove that Americans can be supremely intelligent, compassionate, liberal, health-conscious, and politically and environmentally aware. I become the most patriotic person possible, proud of my country and the fact that I am, along with many others, an exception to the stereotypical rule.

I can't help but wonder what this love/hate relationship with the US must do to one's identity. How is it possible to have a truly positive sense of self when part of you detests what you are and the place where you ultimately call home?