Becoming American 07.04.2006

(Originally written for San Francisco Public Radio, KQED)

When I first came to the Chicago in the summer of 1989, it was my dream to live in America – without actually becoming American. I hadn’t cared for the American stereotypes I’d encountered in Europe, but selfishly wanted to take advantage of all the opportunity America had to offer. Still, I felt an obligation to better understand Americans and resolved to meet as many as I could – sort of a social anthropological adventure. But it was useless – I couldn’t find any.

No matter where I looked or whom I met, nobody admitted to being American. Even people born here! They were all German-Irish, or Dutch-Sicilian-Saxony, or some other ethnic “combo plate”. It was the genealogical equivalent of having your “special” drink at Starbucks – you can’t just order a coffee, you need to have the “Grande half-caf extra-skinny latte extra shot with room” - The drink that announces your individuality. “American? Not special enough for me, thanks! I’m Norwegian-Dutch Reform!” It was a vanity license plate worn round your neck– the one the DMV gave you just wasn’t special enough, so you made up your own. I was frustrated. I had thought that, unlike me, people came to America to actually be American.

I was absolutely wrong. What I’ve learned is that people don’t come here to be American. They come for the exact same reasons I did - people come to this country to be different; themselves. They come from places that don’t encourage, don’t tolerate and, in some cases, outright persecute, those who are different. People come to America to celebrate and be proud of their differences - whether it’s to practice a religion or to start a business in an economy that still encourages success and rewards hard work.

The dirty little secret in this country is that the only time we actually describe ourselves as Americans is when we’re talking with non-Americans. It’s a label that, inside our borders, has zero genealogical significance whatsoever. It’s more like a global status symbol brand. All our individual heritages are ingredients in that secret formula that creates this brand – that somehow winds up being greater than the sum of its parts.
So here I am, 16 years later. I now have two children of my own who bemoan the fact that their Father has a funny accent and knows nothing about baseball. In a few years, I’ll have spent half my life in America. Fact is, I think I really became American in 1989 when I looked back from the Adler Planetarium at Lake Michigan, Grant Park and the gleaming skyline and thought “You know, I could really live here”

Next week, I’m filing my citizenship papers. I’ll be an American, yes, but a Scottish-American. What can I say? I’m different.