I am an American. There, I said it. Fifty-three years on this earth, and it’s only now that I’m beginning to understand and accept that fact. Not because I was trying to deny it, but because for a long time, I wasn’t sure what that even meant to me—someone whose ancestors bled, toiled, and built so much of what we see today, only to have their contributions treated as if it was an honor just to be here, regardless of their circumstance.
I remember being a kid in elementary school, reciting the Pledge of Allegiance with my hand over my heart, next to my classmates. All of us just going through the motions. What does a six- or seven-year-old really know about pledging allegiance to a country? I’d say, not much. It was part of the curriculum, like math or spelling, a kind of rote memorization. Stand up, face the flag, say the words. It wasn’t until I got older that I began to grasp the weight of what I was being asked to do.
By the time I hit my teens, the idea of pledging my allegiance to anything, let alone a flag, began to feel strange. What did that flag really represent for someone like me? When you’re young, you don’t question the rituals—they’re baked into your day, part of your routine. But when you start to see the bigger picture, when you understand that history is not just stories in a textbook, but a legacy sometimes written in blood, sweat, and tears, you start to think twice. So I wondered: What did I pledge to? Is this really my America?
The Struggle to Define “American”
That question, “What did I pledge to?” led me to some introspection. It’s a complicated thing, this idea of being American. What exactly does it mean to be American? For some, it’s as simple as being born here, and participating in the rituals—pledging the flag, singing the national anthem, celebrating the Fourth with fireworks and BBQs. But for others, it’s not so clear-cut.
For me, coming to terms with my American identity involves peeling back the layers of a complex, often painful history. My ancestors were not immigrants who chose to come here in search of the American Dream. Which, by the way, to borrow a quote from comedian George Carlin, “It’s called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe it.” They were brought here in chains and forced to build this nation under insurmountable conditions. My ancestors’ blood runs through the soil of this country, yet for generations, their contributions were minimized, their right to exist as human beings, denied.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that being American meant something different for those of us descended from enslaved people. The American story we were told in school was not our story. Our narrative didn’t begin with freedom and opportunity—it began with bondage. It’s no wonder I had trouble reconciling my identity as an American. For so long, the country I was asked to pledge allegiance to didn’t even acknowledge my humanity.
Marcus Garvey and the “Back to Africa” Movement
It’s not just a personal struggle; this tension between belonging and exclusion has been part of the African American experience since day one. Take Marcus Garvey, for example. Garvey’s “Back to Africa” movement intrigued me. He was a man with vision, determined to uplift Black people around the world by promoting the idea that we should return to our ancestral homeland, to build a life free from the oppression and racism we endured in the West.
On the surface, it certainly sounds noble—reclaiming what was lost and building something new. But as I dug deeper, I realized it wasn’t that simple. While Garvey’s intentions were good, the idea that we should abandon the land our ancestors are buried under didn’t sit well with me. It felt like abandoning everything they were forced to build here and let others reap the spoils. Again, this is not a knock-on Garvey’s intentions, but on an America that was so willing to cast us out after generations of free labor. Fuck that!
Our ancestors didn’t just suffer in America; they built America. From the cotton fields of the South to the railroads stretching across the continent, Black labor laid the foundation for this country’s wealth. To suggest that we should just pack up and leave—essentially wiping the slate clean—felt like an erasure of our legacy. Yes, Africa is our homeland, but America was now our home, forged by the sacrifices of those who came before us.
The Complexity of Black American Identity
This is where the complexity of Black American identity really comes into play. We live with this duality every day. Where we are both African and American, linked to a history of oppression, but also to one of resilience and triumph. We’ve fought tooth and nail to carve out a space for ourselves in a country that has, at times, refused to recognize our worth.
Figures like Frederick Douglass, who fought not only for the emancipation of Black people but for the soul of America itself. Douglass believed that the promise of America—the ideals of freedom, equality, and justice—could be realized if we held the country accountable to those very principles. Douglass didn’t give up on the ideals of America, even when it would have been easy for him to do so.
Then there’s John Brown, a white abolitionist who literally went to war for Black freedom. Brown’s dedication to ending slavery cost him his life. He understood, perhaps better than most whites at the time, that Black people’s fight for freedom was not just a Black struggle—it was an American struggle. People like Douglass and Brown, a black man and a white man, saw the true potential of America, even when it was deeply flawed. They believed in an American future that would be defined by those ideals, not just for the white folks in which they’d always been applied, but for everyone.
Reconciling the Past and the Present
It’s this long, tangled history that has shaped my understanding of what it means to be an American. I can’t separate my identity from the legacy of my ancestors. Their sacrifices made it possible for me to be here today, writing these words, contemplating what it means to pledge allegiance to a flag that, for so long, didn’t wave for us.
But here’s the thing: I am an American. I can acknowledge the pain and the suffering that came before me while also taking pride in the strength and resilience of my people. I don’t have to choose between being Black and being American—they are intertwined. My American story is different from the one I was taught in school, but it’s no less valid.
In fact, it’s the untold stories, the ones that don’t make it into textbooks, that truly define America. People like Frederick Douglass, John Brown, and countless named and unnamed men and women who fought, argued, and died for a better future, are the real American heroes. It’s in the efforts of those individuals that we are reminded that America is not just a place—it is an ideal, one that we must constantly strive to live up to.
So yes, I am an American. Not because I recited a pledge or waved a flag, but because my ancestors helped build this country, and their legacy is woven into the very fabric of what it means to be American. We are here, as we have always been here. That’s a fact I’m finally ready to acknowledge.
Leave a Reply