My Birthright Is Not Enough
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LISTENING: to the drum of my cooling system
FEELING: hot and itchy
SEEING: an empty mini carrot cake box
I'm thinking a lot these days about what it means to be an American. On Tuesday, the Supreme Court ruled against Donald Trump's executive order trying to end birthright citizenship in the U.S. What a relief I felt to read that headline.
I am a citizen of the United States, some kind of miracle or stroke of luck. My mother and my father came to this country without papers. They walked on foot through desert sand and shrub. They learned to survive in a place without knowing the language. My mom, the one who raised me, still isn't fluent in English. Hell, she can barely read Spanish. She didn't make it past first grade. They met here, where they fell in love, and gave birth to me, my brother, and my sister.
I imagine my life had I been born in El Salvador. Would I bathe by moonlight in the ravine? At least, until globalization sent plastic and sewage its way? Would I still be a writer? Or would I have followed in my mother's footsteps, selling pupusas and bagged sodas to bus riders? How long until the climate crisis came for me there? How long until the heat killed our crops, livestock, or ourselves? Until endless rains engorged the nearby ravine to wash us all away?
My life would have been very different in El Salvador. I won the world lottery and was born in New York. There are some days when I sit in awe at how lucky we all are. We could've been born anywhere, yet here we are.
When I think about what it means to be American, especially as the Fourth of July approaches, I think of perseverance. Of not giving up. Determination. Of the fight. Liberation. Is that not how America was founded? A David-against-Goliath battle between the British colonizers and the settlers who made the U.S. home?
Of course, our country's history is much more complex than that. Genocide, slavery, racism, and violence were the undercurrents throughout these epochs. That, too, is American, right? To kill. To slaughter. To take and to steal. To isolate. To other those who don't look like you. To destroy.
Different chapters in this country mean different things to different people. I live in New York, a city where the Statue of Liberty's plaque famously reads: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
This is the America I honor. The one I'm proud to represent. Where cultures from across the globe hold hands despite our differences. Where Native lands persist despite genocide. Where generations of Black families pass down their recipes and love. Where I walk down the street and hear languages I can't name. Where I eat cuisines from cultures my mother and her mother have never heard of.
However, this birthright of mine — this so-called American Dream — feels woefully insufficient when I look at how this country is eroding the rights of others. The Supreme Court ruled last week that the Trump administration can strip temporary protected status from Haitian and Syrian refugees. They'll be the next ones deported despite the instability of their places of origin. The same day the court ruled to preserve my citizenship, the justices decided trans athletes can't play in female sports.
I'm safe — for now — but how long until they come back for me? Citizenship is a construct. In the meantime, I'm still queer and brown. I'm still a pro-choice woman. A vocal dissident. A writer who dares to challenge the actions of the administration. A registered member of the Democratic Socialists of America. I am still the child of immigrants. Will their green cards be enough?
No one is safe when any one of us is oppressed.
This relief is temporary. Climate calamity is here, and more people will show up at our door, begging for help. Some will be poor. Some will be wealthy. Some will speak English, and others won't know how to read. Some will kiss boys, and some will kiss girls. Others will kiss neither, and that's OK.
Will we show them the true American way and help? Or will this country go further down a hole of hate and shun them away?
I still believe this country can be good. I still believe in liberty and justice for all. This is my home. I must believe. I must. 🌀
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