In 1984, when my parents were sworn in as American citizens, I distinctly remember their differing reactions: My father was thrilled to be counted as a citizen of the country that had taken us in, excited for the opportunity to participate in civic life and to enter into the peoplehood of America. My mother, on the other hand, was grateful for the security of citizenship, but cherished the freedom to continue on as an Iraqi.
I recall my mother coming through the front door triumphant, telling me of the encouragement she’d been given — alongside the other freshly-minted Americans — to hold tight to their original cultures and their long-held traditions. As long as we live in fidelity with America’s laws, she proclaimed, we’re free to stay Iraqis. She was beaming.
I harrumphed in response. Herein was a great point of contention between my mother and me, even when I was young: the question of what it meant to be an American. She had come home happy that day, not only because she had become a citizen of a great nation, but because those in charge had confirmed her priors of what that honor truly meant.
My immigrant mother’s reasoning was thus: America had no identity to which we must assimilate. “They are just people who go to work all day,” she’d say. “They have no social life. They don’t even have food that is distinct; it’s all from other places.” We needn’t pursue an “American way of life.” One didn’t exist.
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