WRAPPED IN A FLAG of red, white and blue, I sat on the floor of the little den, going through my mom’s closet after she died. We were sorting through all her sewing stuff and fabrics, in a moment of delirium, I draped the American flag around me like a toga, a lady liberty of sorts. I can sense the irony behind my eyes.
I had just returned from living in East Africa for many years, and I was still contemplating a return back to the United States, in all of its complexity and chaos. In the years I was gone, the country had spiraled into a polarized funk I could barely recognize and it was hard to muster up any kind of patriotic feelings about any of it.
If you read enough about American history, after all, it’s hard to find any sort of love or reconciliation with a nation built on so much suffering and injustice. Americans abroad also got a bad rap, for the most part, as many of us travel and work with a sense of arrogance and condescension.
I spent a lot of my time in Zanzibar downplaying this aspect of my identity, and doing everything I could to signal a willingness and desire to learn about the culture I was in instead of importing some wonky version of the one in which I grew up.
Still, I worked at a place called the “American Corner” section of the State University of Zanzibar, for an organization called American Councils for International Education, and my job entailed supporting young Americans as they ventured to learn the East African language of Swahili for a semester or two in Zanzibar.
So it was kind of hard to avoid my identity as an American—and with this job came some pretty weird privileges like regular visits to the American Embassy for security briefings, and the one-time visit to a state luncheon with the Tanzanian president, with my students in tow, to express mutual goodwill and respect for each other’s nations, histories, and friendship.
So much has changed since then—the embassy still exists but certainly not the robust presence of American ambassadors and civil servants who once worked for USAID and other agencies—that all collapsed within the last year, as the current administration worked to contract our nation’s presence in the world, and shrink us back into a state of isolation and insularity.
That’s not to say the work Americans did abroad was entirely good—there’s plenty of corruption found running through those channels. But being so close to this kind of diplomacy also gave me a front row seat to view this country’s presence in other places, and the ways in which its messages of mutuality were once delivered.
This work also gave me a chance to reflect on how I would choose to talk about my country to those I met along the way. At times, I’ve been critical and disparaging, yes, but I also learned to call out this nation’s layers of goodness, even as I critique its deeply insane foundations of injustice and violence.
In Zanzibar, the local university students would often tell me they wished they could live in the United States one day, to study there or relocate. I’d tell them that America was indeed amazing but also deserving of way more critique than praise. I’m not sure if they understood what I meant, but I offered up the invitation to consider what might happen if they dreamed of staying instead of leaving.
I was able to have many conversations that helped me see my country from all sides and angles—and I’m still contemplating all the ways I appreciate this place—even as I critique it and rail against it.
I remember coming home after a long time away and marveling at the smoothness of the sidewalks for example. The way I was able to walk in a straight line for more than a minute without fearing I’d break my ankle on a jagged stone or jutting wire on my path.
I remember marveling at the insane abundance of options at the local Target—not to celebrate consumerism but just to feel the relief of knowing I could easily access what I needed without much struggle. I know we’re mad at Target now, but at the time, it was something I indeed noted as a privilege as compared to the sometimes endless search for basic needs on the islands, where everything is imported and somewhat expensive.
I remember appreciating the ease with which I could rely on electricity and other amenities like WiFi without worrying much about whether I’d stay connected during an important call or meeting online. Again, a small noticing but not something I could take for granted while living in Zanzibar, where power goes out all the time and calls are dropped, meetings cancelled.
I know some will say that these small appreciations are possible because of this country’s abuses of power that make these conveniences possible—and I acknowledge that—but I also do feel some sense of gratitude that, at the very least, this country does gives us some choices about how we respond to these imperfections and injustices, and actually make moves in the direction of liberty and justice for all.
I’m trying to make peace with a country that I barely recognize any more but continue to love.
In seventh grade, my crush refused to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. I thought he was so cool for doing that—he stood his ground even when our history teacher admonished him and tried to make him stand up, even if he wasn’t going to say it, out of respect for the flag. He still refused and got kicked out of class! The rest of us were stunned by his commitment to protest and exercise his right of refusal.
I still think that’s part of what makes America great, the relative freedom to exercise one’s right of refusal. Of course, that’s all being tested now more than ever before, and it feels so uncertain and wobbly in these times, but I still hold out hope that this radical experiment in belonging, community, and justice is already set in motion and we’re still heading in the direction of its fundamental promise.
As a vintage collector, I often come across the strange and fevered scenes of Americana across the ages—images from history that make us shudder, cringe, and cry, memories that make us wonder, hide, and question everything—and yet, I also appreciate these images and objects as evidence of a country becoming itself, reaching toward the edges of its constitutional contours, striving to look itself in the mirror.
History holds up this mirror to us every day—and every day we also have the choice to look, or look away. I choose to stare back and also look forward, so to speak, take one step and then the next in the direction of a hope as radical of this nation’s becoming in the first place!
I don’t consider myself super patriotic as a person, but I also feel deeply grateful and in awe of what’s lead us to this moment, and admittedly optimistic that we still have time to steer the ship toward more peaceful and just shores.
Happy Fourth of July!
I had just returned from living in East Africa for many years, and I was still contemplating a return back to the United States, in all of its complexity and chaos. In the years I was gone, the country had spiraled into a polarized funk I could barely recognize and it was hard to muster up any kind of patriotic feelings about any of it.
If you read enough about American history, after all, it’s hard to find any sort of love or reconciliation with a nation built on so much suffering and injustice. Americans abroad also got a bad rap, for the most part, as many of us travel and work with a sense of arrogance and condescension.
I spent a lot of my time in Zanzibar downplaying this aspect of my identity, and doing everything I could to signal a willingness and desire to learn about the culture I was in instead of importing some wonky version of the one in which I grew up.
Still, I worked at a place called the “American Corner” section of the State University of Zanzibar, for an organization called American Councils for International Education, and my job entailed supporting young Americans as they ventured to learn the East African language of Swahili for a semester or two in Zanzibar.
So it was kind of hard to avoid my identity as an American—and with this job came some pretty weird privileges like regular visits to the American Embassy for security briefings, and the one-time visit to a state luncheon with the Tanzanian president, with my students in tow, to express mutual goodwill and respect for each other’s nations, histories, and friendship.
So much has changed since then—the embassy still exists but certainly not the robust presence of American ambassadors and civil servants who once worked for USAID and other agencies—that all collapsed within the last year, as the current administration worked to contract our nation’s presence in the world, and shrink us back into a state of isolation and insularity.
That’s not to say the work Americans did abroad was entirely good—there’s plenty of corruption found running through those channels. But being so close to this kind of diplomacy also gave me a front row seat to view this country’s presence in other places, and the ways in which its messages of mutuality were once delivered.
This work also gave me a chance to reflect on how I would choose to talk about my country to those I met along the way. At times, I’ve been critical and disparaging, yes, but I also learned to call out this nation’s layers of goodness, even as I critique its deeply insane foundations of injustice and violence.
In Zanzibar, the local university students would often tell me they wished they could live in the United States one day, to study there or relocate. I’d tell them that America was indeed amazing but also deserving of way more critique than praise. I’m not sure if they understood what I meant, but I offered up the invitation to consider what might happen if they dreamed of staying instead of leaving.
I was able to have many conversations that helped me see my country from all sides and angles—and I’m still contemplating all the ways I appreciate this place—even as I critique it and rail against it.
I remember coming home after a long time away and marveling at the smoothness of the sidewalks for example. The way I was able to walk in a straight line for more than a minute without fearing I’d break my ankle on a jagged stone or jutting wire on my path.
I remember marveling at the insane abundance of options at the local Target—not to celebrate consumerism but just to feel the relief of knowing I could easily access what I needed without much struggle. I know we’re mad at Target now, but at the time, it was something I indeed noted as a privilege as compared to the sometimes endless search for basic needs on the islands, where everything is imported and somewhat expensive.
I remember appreciating the ease with which I could rely on electricity and other amenities like WiFi without worrying much about whether I’d stay connected during an important call or meeting online. Again, a small noticing but not something I could take for granted while living in Zanzibar, where power goes out all the time and calls are dropped, meetings cancelled.
I know some will say that these small appreciations are possible because of this country’s abuses of power that make these conveniences possible—and I acknowledge that—but I also do feel some sense of gratitude that, at the very least, this country does gives us some choices about how we respond to these imperfections and injustices, and actually make moves in the direction of liberty and justice for all.
I’m trying to make peace with a country that I barely recognize any more but continue to love.
In seventh grade, my crush refused to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance. I thought he was so cool for doing that—he stood his ground even when our history teacher admonished him and tried to make him stand up, even if he wasn’t going to say it, out of respect for the flag. He still refused and got kicked out of class! The rest of us were stunned by his commitment to protest and exercise his right of refusal.
I still think that’s part of what makes America great, the relative freedom to exercise one’s right of refusal. Of course, that’s all being tested now more than ever before, and it feels so uncertain and wobbly in these times, but I still hold out hope that this radical experiment in belonging, community, and justice is already set in motion and we’re still heading in the direction of its fundamental promise.
As a vintage collector, I often come across the strange and fevered scenes of Americana across the ages—images from history that make us shudder, cringe, and cry, memories that make us wonder, hide, and question everything—and yet, I also appreciate these images and objects as evidence of a country becoming itself, reaching toward the edges of its constitutional contours, striving to look itself in the mirror.
History holds up this mirror to us every day—and every day we also have the choice to look, or look away. I choose to stare back and also look forward, so to speak, take one step and then the next in the direction of a hope as radical of this nation’s becoming in the first place!
I don’t consider myself super patriotic as a person, but I also feel deeply grateful and in awe of what’s lead us to this moment, and admittedly optimistic that we still have time to steer the ship toward more peaceful and just shores.
Happy Fourth of July!
