The Transition Artist

I celebrated the Fourth of July in France.

An American friend and I wanted to have a barbecue to celebrate, but since we both live in apartments where barbecues aren’t allowed, we decided to go for the next best thing and head to a park in Paris. We threw a picnic.

I only have a handful of American friends living here these days, and so I invited all three of the American friends that I have, and then we invited a whole crowd of “honorary Americans.” This crowd is made up of friends who come from far and wide and have spent time studying or living in the United States, but don’t have American passports.

I invited a German friend who I met while she was studying abroad at my University last fall; we took a History of the English language class together and she knew more about my own language than I did and helped me study for the exams, so I figured it was only fair that someone who speaks more grammatically correct English than I do should be invited to a celebration of America. I invited a few French friends who also studied at my University during different semesters, with whom I speak a blend of French and English and share memories from my home country. I invited a few other French friends whom I met in France, but who have studied or lived in America on their own for a year or more; their English and understanding of American culture is so good that it seemed normal that they would partake in the festivities. These friends are the ones who texted me beforehand to let me know that they’d bring “beer and wings,” “maybe fajitas,” and “chips and beer.” They understood the holiday without my having to explain.

Another American came with her French boyfriend, and somebody’s cousin, also American, had just moved to Paris from Tokyo, so she came, too. Ironically, one of my American friends even brought a British friend along.

And so there we were, the most diverse group you’ve ever seen, having a Fourth of July picnic in Paris. We came from all over; from Japan to the Island of Mauritius to England to America, but we sat in the park that day to celebrate the birth of a country of immigrants, speaking English and drinking beer, and it was the most lovely, natural thing in the world. 

So I wonder, then, when it came to be that a country born of a bunch of immigrants and displaced refugees suddenly wanted to shut out its history. I wonder how it’s possible that there are political campaigns calling Americans to help “make America great again.” I wonder when America reached this point of “greatness” that was, in fact, so great that it was able to erase its own history and forget its origins. I wonder when America forgot that it was born a beautiful, shining pinnacle of hope for people of every color under the sun who wanted to make something of themselves freely. I wonder when America became a country that drew lines in the sand with sides marked “us” and “them.”

Maybe some of this collective forgetting and dividing happened a long time ago. Perhaps it was when a few groups of immigrants took over land that was already owned, or maybe when people owned other people and made the “land of the free” sound like irony. Maybe it was when people were classified by economic distinctions labeled “upper,” “lower,” and something called “middle” that we have still yet to accurately define. It could be that it was when American citizens like me started immigrating back out into the countries their ancestors came from, moving to faraway places like France and Japan, suddenly causing other Americans to claim that we are no longer like them, as if a move across an ocean makes one lose their nationality and cultural upbringing. I don’t know when people started forgetting, and I’m not sure there is a particular date in time that anyone can point to to describe when divisions started occurring.

What I do know is that, while I may not be able to explain why my Mexican-French-American heritage somehow leaves me feeling like sometimes I don’t have an “us” to point to anymore, I am living proof of history. I am human evidence of the fact that diverse cultures can live together peacefully and even willingly marry and procreate. I also know that on the day that I celebrated the birth of the nation that created me, I was happy to share it with people that love and appreciate it, despite all its flaws, as much as I do.

In truth, America, while it still has its challenges and struggles, has still improved since its birth as a nation. There is no more slavery, no more race or gender based division on who can vote, sexual orientation is more celebrated and accepted than ever before, and, while there is still poverty, the vast majority of Americans live above the global poverty line. These huge victories make up American history just as much as its immigrant origins, and it is my greatest hope that one day we’ll all wake up and stop forgetting, and instead continue to build a future based on embracing us, instead of rejecting them.