An American

An American isn’t defined as someone who can live in the Great United States. It’s more than that. An American has character, a definition embedded within all of us because of what our country is made of. We can be farmers, using the fertile lands that we are established on to embrace an opportunity. We can build the highest of towers and claim the skies our own. An American can be free, and American can be brave, but an American has to call the country where they have lived all their life “home”. An American should be “home”. As the dilemma is presented, we introduce ourselves from other nationalities. “I’m Italian”. No you aren’t, you’re an American, as a real Italian would say. We aren’t ever aware of this flaw because of the perpetuation of the idea that we are a melting pot; that we come from another land. We never have had the chance to call ourselves what we actually are because we are masked by our ancestor’s ambitions. We hide behind the houses that we built long ago in foreign lands, when we need to embrace the actuality of where we are from. The foundations of my home, literal and physical, reside in the United States of America. Someone who comes from another, but acknowledges the present is an American. Americans are here, we are where we call home.