I Was Raised in America

No matter what, America is where I was raised. No matter how I feel about her, or her role in the world, America is where I was raised.

I’m Nicaraguan by birth. My family immigrated to the US when I was around 5 (1976-77), as Nicaragua was recovering from a devastating earthquake and Marxist “revolutionaries” were starting to create unrest. I was raised before ESL was a thing in school, when McDonald’s was a treat, and when we were still allowed to play outside until the street lights turned on. I was growing up in America while she was trying to shake herself out, my birth country was collapsing, and I was being made fun of for my accent and sandals. Thank goodness for Star Wars, Superman, and Steven Spielberg giving us alternate definitions of “alien”.

“My America”, that’s our real national motto. Because America means something different to us all and no matter where we are in the world, no matter our political leanings, no matter our baseball or football teams, the nationalism of it all still holds us together, even while the threads are on fire. I didn’t think it would be this hard to watch my friends and family celebrate on the 4th, their America, their way while I’m sitting under a quiet sky and a loud beach that have absolutely no idea what I’m missing.

This is a deep, sharp kind of loneliness and I can’t be the only American in Spain feeling it. Especially since nationalism takes root early and, for me, it was in two languages.

My mom was super pro-American while my dad was deeply tied to his Nicaraguan roots. There was never a division in our household on where the perspective of the revolution was but while my mom was working to integrate us as much as possible, my dad was making sure that we held on to our culture (come hell or high water most of the time). Neither was wrong, but they sure made for some very confusing and explosively rebellious teenage years with internal conflicts that have legitimately stood the test of time. I don’t remember other people that I grew up with ever having such a deep conflict with national identity. My mom’s position was rare in the Nicaraguan community because she came from privilege, something I didn’t appreciate until I truly understood what that loss meant for her and ultimately, for me.

I think about my countries a lot. I know that I am still in the middle of those identities and I’m OK with that. But something that I’ve experienced, twice now, are the expectations of absolute assimilation to a new country without consideration for the loss of the old. And I tell you something, that just isn’t me. I am as much American as I am Nicaraguan, but I am only getting to know Spain. And I’m in Catalonia which is an additional layer of culture to this culture.

So yes, I am unapologetic about what I miss from food to language to entertainment to everything that means growing up American. And I get stubbornly defensive when people criticize the speed of my assimilation, especially when that criticism comes from non-Spanish people. And yes, when the 4th of July comes around and the memories of sitting in the park, having a picnic with my people, watching a fireworks show, and celebrating the country that formed me, I miss her. I truly miss her.

I miss the hot dogs, the hamburgers, the itchy grass under the picnic blanket, the Cheetos and Fritos, the iced cold Coke, the ranch dressing, and the feeling of being American when those fireworks go CRACK in the sky, and people sing along to Irving Berlin and Woody Guthrie and the appropriately appropriated, in-your-face ‘My Country ‘Tis of Thee’. Every immigrant has their own version of it, their own food, their own flag, their own song that undoes them. Mine just happens to be red, white, and blue.

I love all of my countries, but I am in Spain for a reason. And I am learning to love Spain but not at the expense of losing my hard-fought personal identity. This is my 4th summer here and while I may never understand starting parties at midnight, I know how lucky I am to work at this new experience of it. This is the privilege that my mom actually fought to hold on to, this is the privilege of my immigrant experiences, the privilege of MY American perspective, and no matter where my feet are standing, that’s something I will never let go of.

I’ve always loved the weathered look for the US flag. I think it’s fitting.