On January 19th, 2005, my mother and I became American citizens.  When I told my friends I applied for citizenship a few asked what took me so long, whereas others just asked why.  A fair question since now is not the best time to be an American.  Terrorism, war and recession are mainstays on the news.  Friends returning from travels talk about their embarrassment as Americans abroad.  But it’s funny how the worst times are somehow the best, that is to say necessary times for making commitments. 

For a long time, the green card was sufficient.  However, the Bush administration has curtailed civil liberties and actively limited immigration.  I couldn’t keep one foot dangling in Japan.  It wasn’t acceptable to be divided any longer.  I always thought the green card was for the commitment-shy; it is the stance of uncertainty:  you live here, but your heart’s not fully present.  Applying for citizenship, on the other hand, is like getting married.  No more flirting with one country while living with another.  No more international polygamy for me.  Yet, three years after the ceremony, the vows, the commitment, the oath to the flag, I remain ambivalently American.

Japan doesn’t allow dual citizenship, so when I became American, I let go of the country where I was born.  The loss didn’t cause me much grief: I’ve lived in America for twenty-four years and infrequently return to Japan.  It was harder for my mother because she grew up in Japan and continues to work there as a professor, a job she started after getting U.S. citizenship.  Still, I had reservations about being part of a country where people often consider me a foreigner.  When my mother and I told people that we became U.S. citizens, they heartily congratulated us.  I was pleased but cocked my head at their uncomplicated joy.

My mother’s friend, also a freshly naturalized Asian American, told me how, upon returning from a trip to Japan, the immigration officer at customs looked at her passport and said, “Welcome back home.”  The comment was like an initiation ceremony; she felt American for the first time.  When I returned from a trip to Japan after getting my citizenship, the immigration officer at the airport interrogated me.  Scrutinizing me through narrowed eyes, he snapped, “When did you become a citizen?  How long was your trip to Japan?  What was your business there?  Where are you staying in the U.S.?”  My mother experienced similar treatment when she visited me for New Year’s.  She said, “I felt like I was being accused of a crime.”

There are occasions when I belatedly realize that I’m the only Asian, and sometimes the only minority, in a room.  Tension can provoke the realization, such as the time when a girl in my AP history class in high school said, “I don’t like to see Japanese tourists wandering around with their cameras.  I want to tell them to go home.”  The teacher replied, “I would be careful what you say.  One of those people is here in the room right now.”  Then she gestured at me.  The apology the girl made to me after class was even more cringe-worthy, partially because I understood her prejudice.  I too disliked seeing the tourists.  I wanted to disavow any connection and holler, “I’m not a tourist!” but most Americans don’t think I am one of them.

People don’t understand why the question, “Where are you from?” triggers such belligerent responses.  The reason is due to the assumption that Asians are foreign, not American.  The correct answer to the question is never Anytown, USA.  That response will only prompt the inquisitor to ask again.  “Where are you from?”  Occasionally, I want to reply, “From another planet.”  This is not to exaggerate my feelings of alienation.  Most teenagers and many adults, if honest with themselves, would answer similarly.  These days, families are increasingly fragmentary, people no longer believe in marriage, and relocating for work or school is so common that it’s hard to keep track of friends.  I often feel adrift and experience difficulty situating myself, and I think that is reflective of the times, not necessarily my race.  Alienation isn’t just inherently human, but characteristically American.  Still, immigrants are bound to feel isolation more keenly than others.

The most devoted Americans I know are immigrants.  My mother is ardently American.  She ecstatically told me about her experience recently during the Maryland primaries – voting for the first time!  Overseas no less!  Meeting other expats!  Talking politics with them!  Only individuals who have known what it is like to watch from the sidelines, to be unable to participate in the world they live in, can understand these seemingly ordinary pleasures.  The last two elections reignited political passions, but it wasn’t so long ago that voter apathy was the norm.  Immigrants understand that voting is a luxury.  When my mother and I were summoned for jury duty, she cooed with delight, while I sent our excuses (she was in Japan, I was a student out of state).

Everyone tries to find a nuanced understanding of themselves as distinctive individuals who also require a community.  In “How it Feels to be Colored Me,” Zora Neale Hurston wrote, “I have no separate feeling about being an American citizen and colored... My country, right or wrong.”  I wonder if I could ever possess such unabashed confidence.  When I recount the incidents, the traumas of being a minority and wail, my friends have limited sympathy.  They repeat that old self-help mantra, “It doesn’t matter what other people think.  What’s important is self-acceptance.”  Or even more succinctly, “Who cares?  You’re American.” 

I do not feel excluded, but I do not feel that I belong.  And wouldn’t you know it?  That entirely depends on me.

America is a country of immigrants but it does not welcome immigrants.  Many flee persecution, but they are not sympathetic to the suffering of others.  People create a home for themselves, but they cannot make room for others.  Those who seek opportunities in America are confronted by the country’s arrogance and its disdain for non-native speakers.  Anyone who wants to become a citizen must contend with these issues and reconcile these paradoxes within themselves.  I have a confession: I love America.  I want to find the strength that Langston Hughes had to assert, “I, too, am America.”  But I think I will continue to question, to be a little dubious of America’s charms.  Loving a country and identifying with it are not the same.  I am an American, and I am in the privileged position of struggling to claim what is given.

Rihoko is a struggling writer in New York City.  She writes for Alarm Magazine.