Can I Just Be American Again?

Filed Under: Metropolitan Experience

I was American once.

Back in the 1980s.

The memories.

They don’t lie.

Well, they can lie.

But they don’t.

I said the Pledge of Allegiance daily.

Did I feel it?

I have no idea.

But I said it.

2,340 times.

I ate McDonald’s on the regular.

I watched baseball.

Scratch that.

I obsessed over baseball.

Apple pie?

You bet.

My accent—it was American as hell.

Still is.

The passport?

American as hell.

Always has been.

I celebrated Christmas.

Everyone did.

Then came the 1990s.

Grunge music.

My music.

Seattle is in the US, right?

But something happened.

I became Asian.

No, not that kind of Asian.

The other kind—with the curry.

You know, the stuff they served at those restaurants.

They were popping up all over the place.

The smells.

The accents.

I smiled.

And I cringed.

I got a degree.

And another degree.

I was fulfilling a stereotype.

So were a lot of people.

I looked around.

It was tinted.

More tinted than I had remembered.

The temples.

They were becoming like the restaurants.

Do I have to go?

The younger ones.

They sounded like me.

But they could sound like them, too.

I couldn’t flip that switch.

Mine only came with one setting.

(Maybe two, if you included the Spanish.)

The youngsters talked cricket.

I still talked baseball.

Is that okay?

Then came the holidays.

Not just Christmas anymore.

Happy Diwali!

Should I care?

Happy Holi!

What is that again?

The cultural center is hosting a celebration.

Where is that?

A certain percentage of the ticket price goes to the museum they’re building.

Is that good?

There were also the impromptu interviews.

Your daughter does dance—Indian dance?

Just, like, dance dance.

Does your son play Hindi music?

Grunge music.

Where in India are you from?

What do you do?