The Day I Learned I Was American
My ability to embrace America on my own terms is a privilege that makes America great.
When I was about 5 years old, I learned I was American. I was sitting at a Japanese restaurant a few blocks from my parents’ apartment in Manhattan. I remember the exact moment, though I can’t remember what led to it. Maybe I’d parroted some comment about what Americans are like that I’d heard one of my immigrant family members make, and my mother felt the need to set the record straight. I’m not sure. But I remember that my mother got a funny look on her face and said, in French, “You know, you’re American, too.”
On the walk home, I cried. Not tears of joy. I wondered if this could really be true, that
