That’s right, guys. My mom is an alien, a legal alien. For anyone who didn’t get the reference, those are some lyrics from a Sting song. I think the only reason I’ve ever heard the song is that my household finds it quite relatable. When I was a kid, I was intrigued to discover that my mother was indeed an alien; the fact that she didn’t have a tinge of green in her skin was further confusing. Then I found out that the only green involved was her green card. It’s fair to say that I was slightly disappointed; an extraterrestrial parent would’ve been cool. Alas, my mom is just a human being like the rest of us.
There’s a lot of rhetoric going around concerning immigrants. I thought I’d throw in my own experience with immigration. It’s slowly become a word with a fairly negative connotation which is interesting since this country is founded on immigration. Unless you’re native American, every one of us is here thanks to immigration. Everyone has their own respective and relevant opinions, but I think it is important to consider that much of the value of this country, both in the past, and present is built upon our diversity. One need only take a glance at the Statue of Liberty for proof of what our country represents.
I was born to an American dad and a French and Italian mom. She’s lived in the U.S. for about 25 years now and knows English better than I do, in fact, she teaches it. My mom is a pretty badass alien. Her alien status was frequently confirmed on just about every trip to Walmart when the cashier would ask some equivalent of: “you’re not from around here, are you?” or “what accent is that?” For the most part, these were all well-meaning, curious questions, but nonetheless, after a while, they began to make me slightly uncomfortable.
For many people, an accent automatically disproves the notion that one could be American. I think an interesting question we must ask ourselves is what makes an American. Clearly, if we’re speaking in legal terms, it’s a piece of paper, a passport, or some other form of identity. But besides the palpable, material proof, who are Americans, and how, are they different from everyone else? I don’t claim to know the answers to these questions, however, I do believe that they are relevant and worth asking of ourselves.
In my opinion, my mom is every bit as American as I am. The fact that I have Illinois scrawled across my birth certificate doesn’t make much of a difference at all. She could become American if she so desired; it’s only some paperwork away. But she doesn’t need a piece of paper to confirm her identity. Besides, she’s already got enough passports to keep up with. So for now, I’ll continue to be proud of the fact that I have an alien in the family, until, or if that ever changes. I think it’s important to keep in mind that we’re all people. We have different backgrounds and stories, but when it comes down to it, we should all be allowed the right to feel as if we belong. Everyone has at least one thing in common, if nothing else: we are human.
