Being American, Not a Hyphen

My family is American, some would say as American as can be. Middle class. Midwestern. A mixture of more than a half dozen ancestries in our various branches. We generally refer to ourselves as “Heinz 57” to denote we carry a dash of this and a pinch of that in our bloodlines.

My husband's lineage is nearly pure Irish on his father's side. His mother's side is originally English, as they were Mayflower passengers, but succeeding generations married primarily Irish stock, though there is a notable Native American marriage in that line. 

My heritage is best described as Celtic and Slavic. On one side there is English, Scottish, Irish and French. The Slavic side is harder to define, as the same spots on the map have been labeled variously, depending on which year the map was drawn. Still, family lore says the ethnicities are Slavic and Roumanian. Of course, each called the other side Gypsy, as that was the most derogatory thing they could say about each other.

Through marriages, I have extended family that claim ancestry from nearly all points of the compass. We have Native American, Jews, Arabs, Germans, Scandanavians, Italians, Greeks, Russians, Japanese, Africans, and Mexicans, to name just a few. In other words, my extended family truly represents the melting pot that is the American people.

With all of those ethnic identities in our family tree, the one thing we don’t have is a hyphen. We are and all claim to be American, pure and simple. Some parts of the family are more in tune with their ethnic heritage because they are first or second generation and remember their forefather’s stories of their place of origin. Others simply feel drawn to the music, food or culture of one of their heritages.

But all, and I do mean all, refer to themselves as American. Not Irish-American or Slavic-American or Mexican-American.

When we add a hyphen to our national identity, we are diluting both sides of the equation. We are saying we are not really Italian, Polish or Mexican, yet we are not wholly American either. When our ancestors set foot on these shores, for those who weren’t already here, they were making a conscious choice to become American.

Particularly in the early years of our nationhood, there were plenty who came here somewhat reluctantly. Then, as is often still the case now, there was no place for them in the land of their birth due to war, poverty, pogroms or simple economics. They came here for a better future for themselves and their progeny. If they could have remained in their land of origin and lived the life of freedom they desired, most would have stayed right where they were.

I wonder how those original immigrants would feel if they knew that future generations would hyphenate themselves, creating a distance from being wholly American. I imagine on the one hand, they would be happy to know that generations yet unborn cherish the heritage of the homelands they left.

I also can’t help think they would be heartsick at the thought that those artificial divisions between "us" and "them," based on heritage, culture, religion or skin color, that were often the beginnings of the troubles that caused them to flee to our shores had risen here.

When I was in college, I had a most enlightening conversation with a foreign exchange student. This person had come to the United States for an education, and to see what life was really like in America. I asked if after having been here for a couple years, he wanted to return to his own country or to apply for permanent resident status.

His response was that there is no such thing as American. He said everything we are, everything we have, our culture, our foods and even our language comes from somewhere else. He called the idea of America a myth, and he was looking forward to finishing his studies so that he could return to his home country, where the people, the culture, the language and even the food were real and authentic, and not a made-up construct.

It took me a few minutes to respond, but I finally asked him how to make bread. I said the basic ingredients are the same the world over, some sort of flour, water and yeast, right? Each of these things alone is unique and identifiable, but when you mix them together they become something wholly new and different. I asked him if there was anything in human history more authentic than bread. I told him that was the best definition of America I could give him.

This is an election year. We are thankfully past the Illinois primaries so the constant barrage of political robo-calls, from every side of every candidacy has finally stopped. At least for the time being. As we draw closer to the big November election, I respectfully call on all my fellow Americans, whoever you are, wherever you or your ancestors came from, to remember this analogy.

We are a wholly unique creation in the history of mankind, we Americans. We are divided on many fronts: political, ideological, religious and ethnic. But we are first and foremost Americans. Whoever our ancestors were, however they came to be here, both on this continent and in this moment of history, we are One People.

When we divide ourselves by hyphenating who and what we are, we lose that cohesiveness that has made this country the place where millions the world over would rather be.