You can’t just walk down any old street and ask any old stranger ‘What is an American,’ because this vague yet intense question requires unnecessary thought. Your stranger will stammer and blurt out the first foolish thing that comes to mine. “Someone who was born in America, or got their green card,” they would say and laugh at themselves and walk away. That, of course, is the most common answer.
However, if you meet a man in Britain who has lived there since he was three but born in America and he has an English accent and has no intention to go back to America. Is he an American?
On your search, you stop yet another stranger. You say a friendly hello to said stranger and he continues to walk by with a high tech cell phone clued to his left ear. “How rude,” you say, hopefully loud enough for him to hear.
You dine at the fabulous McCafe, being parched and tired from all your questioning. Your burger is dripping with grease and your soft drink taste flat. ‘Is this an American,’ you ask yourself.
Continuing your journey to find out what exactly is an American, you are sidetracked by a rally outside of a tall brick building. This crowd of people makes you think that it is more of a protest than a rally.
Picket signs read ‘Baby Killer!’ or ‘Say no to abortion!’ A girl, maybe sixteen, flees from the building hiding her face. Her mother isn’t far behind looking positively livid.
Is she an American? Are the protesters Americans?
On your journey, you take a short cut through the town park and see a group of four of five kids standing by a tree. They all dress similar, wearing only black. Sacs of grass is being passed between hands, being exchanged for large sums of cash. You role your eyes and continue walking.
You get to pleasure of sitting down what an old woman. You ask her for her opinion on the American topic.
“My grandfather came here for freedom because he was promised that and happiness. Lady Liberty was the symbol of that promise. He worked hard, and starved to feed his family. Kids these days have never felt half that hungry. Not for freedom, not for money, and not even for food.”
Okay, okay, so she didn’t make anything any clearer for you. Yet, you walk away smiling. Not because she talked to you or not because she didn’t answer your question, but because she is a sweet old woman.
Is she an American? Are the kids these days American? Is that squirrel by the playground an American as it rushes around to find nuts?
You see a few girls running around in your peripheral vision. You turn to them and see that they are quite young, no older than eleven. You walk up to them, slowly of course; don’t want to scare them away. You ask them what they think.
“Umm..to be able to cheerlead. And, um, I guess hanging out with friends?” She says the last part like a question and runs off with her friends. They giggle and point back at you, but you don’t mind. It’s just a part of being a kid, you guess.
Whoa, wait now, is that American?
You finally make it home, still as confused as when you left. Your mother made you dinner, mac-and-cheese, your favorite. She was feeding your baby sister, both sharing joyous smiles on their faces.
Is your mother an American? Could your sister, who is only seven months old, be an American?
As you sit and play with your dinner, you ask yourself, ‘Am I American?’
No, indeed. You cannot do such things. It is simply un-American.
