America

My feelings about the country I lived in from ages 9 to 12.

America… This word seems almost foreign on my lips now, six years on, like it belongs to another person. Of hot Arizona summers, Girl Scout cookies, and the daily recital of the Pledge of Allegiance; nothing remains but the accent. The accent that immediately pegs me as American to anyone not American and as a foreigner (Maybe Canadian? Or from some remote East Coast town?) to Americans themselves. I was a foreigner then, and I’m a foreigner now.

America - the land of a childhood that isn’t mine anymore. My little brother lost his last tooth waiting for customs in New Wark, I got my period on our last flight out. It’s weird when I think about it, that I arrived in America a child with a pink backpack and a doll and left it a near teenager with an ipod and pads safely stored away in my Jansport (it was middle school, what can I say?).

America. Three: the number of Superbowls I watched, Thanksgivings I celebrated, and Fourth of July parades I attended. We wanted it all, the whole experience, the American Dream. Spoiler alert: it does exist, sort of. At least when you’re an upper middle class family with health insurance paid for by the expat father’s company.

America: I wanted to come back, I swear I did. I did SAT prep you know, and looked into the ACT. I was ready to feel your warm sun on my back and the cool blast of your omnipresent AC in my face, ready to surround myself with the sorority girls and overly expensive sports facilities of your college campuses. I’m sorry, America, but you were too hard, too far, too expensive. I guess Europe’s girl-next-door charm won me over more than your dazzling celebrity looks in the end.

America; last time I came back, I hated you. Or rather, I hated everything you stood for. I hated that you were the future I was robbed from, that two years on from my departure you had changed just enough to make me feel like a tourist but not enough to stop missing you. Love you, love you not; with you, America, I’ve been back and forth a million times.

America, I’m ready. I’m ready to let you go. It’s not you, America, it’s me. I wish you all the best. I’ll try not to stalk you in newspapers, but it’s hard, you know? You’ve just been a part of me for so long. But we’ve both changed, you so much I don’t even recognize you anymore sometimes. Or maybe you were always that way and I’m the one who changed. There’s really no way to know. Anyway, America, I’m sorry, I really am. I wish things didn’t have to end this way. But the opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference; and I’m ready to be indifferent.

America? Goodbye.

Author's Note

This was obviously a very emotional piece for me to write, I've struggled with my feelings over this period of my life for a long time.

Thoughts about the writing style and emotion conveyed would be greatly appreciated.

Photo taken by my father.