It’s a question with answers as varied as the people who respond: What does it mean to be an American?
To some it means being descended from a group that landed on this portion of the continent escaping religious persecution.
To others it is ancestral membership in a community of people who called this land home long before any explorers and settlers arrived.
Others might point to this nation’s role in fighting Nazi Germany with a swelling chest filled with pride; within that same generation there may be those who point to the United States’ use of an atomic bomb to wipe out two villages in Japan — as well as the persecution of Japanese-Americans — with shame and embarrassment.
Somehow there are still those that point to this country’s time of slavery and the Confederacy as among this country’s greatest eras.
Most, however, know better.
To me being an American is, in part, a testament to flavorful chance.
Decades ago two strangers with their own histories met, coupled and produced me.
Unlike millions of others who left behind friends and family for adventure or a second chance throughout this country’s history, I did not come here from another place. I was simply born here.
Like millions of others.
I am part of a conglomeration of cultures, ethnicities and races that over time has created a dynamic and vibrant community. That community, if good people prevail, will continue to grow richer.
I have been fortunate enough to grow up in a relatively diverse county within a diverse state.
Access to the Mexican border aside, I can experience an array of Latino cultures and food in South County and drive a few minutes north to Little Saigon for a serving of pho, a taste of ye-miser wot (red lentils) at an Ethiopian restaurant on El Cajon Boulevard, Korean barbecue then boba tea in Kearny Mesa and later “old school” pizza at Filippi’s in Little Italy.
As a resident of a popular West Coast city, I realize I live in a bubble. The amount of diversity I experience, limited as it may be, is not the same as those who live in this state’s Central Valley or in this country’s Midwest towns. The definition of American to them is presumably different than mine. Nonetheless mine is richer, more diverse and tastier. I am the better for it.
