Once again, friends and cohorts, it's been a long time.
I'm happily back in San Jose after a mildly stressful finals week and many bittersweet goodbyes to friends. By my count, I've currently got friends in at LEAST five different time zones. We're all from different places, which makes summers interesting in terms of communication. But it makes an even bigger difference when you're asking some pretty big questions, which is one thing I really had to be careful about this year - not everyone loves my Californian snark.
There's one thing I've noticed both among my California and Arizona friends, and it's a kind of strange realization. (Okay, you guys know me - everything I'm involved in is kind of strange.) I've got a lot of friends who are first- and second-generation native-born American citizens, and that's great. They're all fantastic. I love them to death, even when they tease me about the fact that I actually sunburn (I still don't understand why that's so funny). They might not realize it, but they have one big advantage over me - they can identify as Indian or Korean or Vietnamese or German or the ethnicity of whatever country they're from, or they can identify as American. And while many will look at them and come to a conclusion other than plain old "American," they've got two options for answering that often-asked question, so bluntly phrased in California: "So, what are you, exactly?"
Take that as a good thing or a bad thing; it's up to you. The flip side of that is my situation. On both sides of my family, I have ancestors who lived in America prior to the Revolutionary War. We go waaaaaaay back. However, when people ask ME "what are you?" and I answer "American," they either assure me that it's okay for me to tell them or continue with "no, what are you REALLY?" Because so many of the people I know are first- or second-gen Americans, the multitudes assume that I must recently be from somewhere else, too. Sometimes I give up and just reply, "Western European," but that never feels right. Sure, three and a half centuries ago, that would have been a valid statement, but my actual lineage has resided in the States for so long that it's like saying Beethoven is only recently dead.
So next time you ask me what ethnicity I am and I say, "American," know that I mean it. It's sad that for so many of us, you can't pass as American if you aren't from somewhere else. Yeah, we're a melting pot, but it's dangerous to have a national identity that's rock-solid in political contexts yet volatile in most others. I mean, just think about standardized testing; under the Race/Ethnicity section, you don't have the option of "American;" I am forever relegated to "White/Caucasian" while my friends choose "Asian" or "Pacific Islander" or "Indian." (This is also true of voter registration, at least in California.) Despite all this, these competing labels and all-encompassing stereotypes, I. Am. American. And I will argue that until people start listening.
Love you all,
Megan
