Thinking About Random Stuff

American

A/N: Sorry for the lack of activity, if you've noticed that is, since my updating schedule is all over the place already. I've been struggling with understanding and coming to terms with my ideas and identity for the entire week and that might be reflected in the work I will now post. They were slowly developed so it might be even worse than the usual quality, and I apologize. It's just a mess right now. 

Might contain offensive stuff or sensitive issues. Or terrible poetry. Maybe if you're lucky, both.

"Do not say you are American,

For you are more than that.

Your culture is not American,

You are more than that.

Don't discredit your family,

Don't forget your roots,

Don't tell me you're American."

Everyone clapped. Smiled, cheered.

The music continued to play and I was drumming and everyone seemed happy.

My face was stony, I can tell you that for the first time in my life, I could feel the coldness radiating from me.

It was confusing, to sit there and to think while the rest of the world was dancing.

Calling out who they are.

Who am I?

The answer should be simple.

My family's all from one place, on the other side of the Earth.

I was the first to be born here, though I grew up back there.

I know the customs, I know the language, I know the culture.

Yet... I am upset. 

Why is American not a choice?

Why should I not have a say in what I am?

And questions like that.

And I also feel guilt.

I should be respecting my roots. 

Just because I was born here doesn't mean I have to identify that way.

My sibling certainly doesn't.

But I am American.

Should I be ashamed of that?

As if 'American' was an excuse for something, the person told me not to call myself that, eyes burning into all of us.

I mutter 'my' country and pretend everything's fine.

People are still calling out.

Fifty percent whatever,

Pure this.

And that is the first time I feel confused.

I was told that I shouldn't be that way,

That my roots were special.

But I am American.

I do not find calling myself anything else comforting.

But back then, my roots were the only thing good about me.

Everything I did reflected my culture.

I showed off my language.

I wrote poems about how hard the tug-of-war between me and them was.

That's all I ever was to the other people.

And still, when the teacher said those words, insecurity struck me.

Insecurity regarding me.

Was I American?

What is an American?

Did I match those standards?

Why was I so worked up about this?

I just swallowed my pride and said what was needed.

Lies. 

I hate liars. 

How much longer?