I Was Born in the U.S.A.

I was indeed born in the USA, as was my daughter, though she has the added dimension of also being half-Belgian, and by extension, for the time being (meaning the fate of the EU that is), European. Both are something that some may forever see as a boon and/or a bane, a blessing and/or a curse.

For my own case, I have experienced both sides, being the recipient and the progenitor of vitriolic effusions about my homeland, but on the flipside, have also over Time, and as a result of extended travel to other ports of call around the world, have also respected and admired the uniqueness of a country like the USA and likewise defended it tooth and nail at times when I realized an antagonist knew next to nothing about my country. It is not an exaggeration to say that no other country on this planet has existed as such, nor will. Like it or not, the USA is something special. That is not out of grandiosity or patriotism, but rather from my own experience.

Before I traveled extensively, as I have done in the past quarter of a century, I was, however, rather naïve and “patriotic” about America (and yes, I fully understand and respect the various Americas such as northern North (Canada), Central and South, but for convenience sake, I speak now of America, the 48 contiguous states and the final two stars on the flag, Alaska and Hawai'i). But, when the rest of the world speaks about Americans, they usually are referring to those of us from the US.

When I first truly went abroad, when my sister married her first husband in Scotland, I landed on the parallel universe of the Plymouth Rock of my ancestors, that is, Victoria Station in London. I will never forget the ensuing rush of emotions and confusion and fascination that raced through my mind. I had re-arrived… My ex-wife often described a similar experience when she arrived in JFK for an AFS year abroad experience. Even if we do not land in the same place, it is interesting to know that we often can feel more at home in a completely foreign culture than the one we have grown up in., whether we are from there or not

Such was the case, and such, such were the days.

Over the years, if nothing else, I have gained new perspectives on being American and not-being American, and the middle road of just Be-ing me. It is a process and a journey, about which I have written, photographed, talked, listened, and just sat, thinking about.

The issue of my daughter’s own mixed heritage came up front and center as we flew into Brussels yesterday and were greeted in a very unfriendly manner at Immigration because we were only traveling with her US passport and not her Belgian one as well. She has made this trip nearly a dozen times in her young life already and nearly half of them alone with me and this was never an issue, until this individual made it so. The frustration lay not in the fact that we were accosted, but the way he spoke to us as “Americans” who just thought that we could waltz into Belgium. Well, I pay Belgian taxes and have paid my dues otherwise, so it rang very falsely in my ears.

But, I am also aware of the enormous struggles of Immigration from people going into the US as well, most directly my ex-wife, who is Belgian and my dear friend who is Colombian by birth and the trials and tribulations her family experienced over the years.

It is a tricky thing, the place where one is born and what “nationality” one actual is. For now, my daughter fits in perfectly in America as an American, speaking American English, but the second she sets foot in Belgium, she is “European” and speaks fluent Flemish. I have never had that luxury as all of the languages I have studied have been constant efforts and consequently I am perennially the “foreigner.”

Our language, our mannerisms, our political views, our religions convictions, our food habits, ways of dress, thoughts on sex, thoughts on marriage, thoughts on cultural heritage, views of family structures, economic situations, and countless other things all add up to the calculus of who we are and where we “fit in” or don’t

For me, I was indeed born an American, though in a Native American hospital, the one white baby in there at the time, from what I have been told and perhaps from the beginning at times I have been the odd one out. Going back and forth from the US to Europe and recently India provides me each time with a new perspective, both about the boons and the banes, and everything in between.