[Susan Kimmel Wright] Our American Journey

• July 4, 1986, we observed Independence Day at the U. S. Ambassador’s residence outside Tegucigalpa, Honduras with our two-year-old son Tony and newborn Francisca. We didn’t know a third adopted child would be joining our lives the next morning…but that is a story for another time.  

The Ambassador had opened the grounds to any homesick American in the vicinity of the Honduran capital. Tony splashed his toes in the cool water of the swimming pool. The fragrance of flowers and woodsmoke hung heavy on the warm air, mingled with the scent of hamburgers and hot dogs being roasted by a contingent of Marines. Everyone was in high spirits, including the Ambassador, who’d hired a uniformed village band to play patriotic songs. I’ll never forget that day, or the Ambassador’s lighting a few small fireworks with a cigar clenched between his teeth and scurrying off with all the glee of a little boy.

America celebrates her 244th birthday this year…though maybe a bit more quietly than on previous Independence Days, given COVID-19 restrictions. Perhaps a holiday less given to crowded parades, community firework displays, picnics, and July 4th “blowout sales” provides the opportunity for patriotic reflection.

Born in the USA

Growing up, I knew July 4th was special because it was one of the few days of the year my hardworking, blue-collar dad was free to spend the day grilling chicken behind the house. We stuck close to home all day, and our rural celebration concluded with a few firecrackers, and sparklers for the kids.

I was enormously proud of my country—”the land of the free and the home of the brave.” My father was a decorated WWII veteran and his part in liberating Europe was a recent memory for my parents’ generation. I’d grown up knowing his ancestors had lived in this country since before the American Revolution—before we even were a country. Maybe I felt just a wee bit of special ownership.

American by Choice

My mother’s family, on the other hand, were German and Czech-speaking immigrants from a tiny mountain village on the shifting border of Germany, Poland, and Slovakia. My grandfather emigrated alone at sixteen, to escape a stepbrother’s abuse. Several years later, my grandmother came here too, leaving behind family members her children—including my mother—would never know.

My maternal grandparents finally achieved their American dream when they were able to buy their own farm, after a childhood spent driving a single cow to a distant rented field. Once one of my uncles said he was hungry, Grandpa told him, “When I asked for a piece of bread, I got a slap.” Their American-born family members became farmers, teachers, blue-collar workers, missionaries, and businesspeople. They included a physician, professor, lawyer, writer, musician, and rocket scientist. Like my father’s family, they sent their sons to war, and their daughters rolled bandages, donated blood, and bought War Bonds. 

Coming to America

Our own children received U. S. citizenship as babies in our arms.  Standing in court, we swore on their behalf to “support and defend the Constitution and laws of the United States of America.” My husband and I, born into citizenship, felt the enormity of that gift as we stood with new citizens from around the world, all reciting their oaths of allegiance along with us. The raw emotion on those faces brought an ache to my chest.

America is both a gift and a trust, a set of ideals rather than a simple matter of geography. Her heart beats in the hearts of her people.

Happy birthday, Lady Liberty. And in the words of Katharine Bates’ “America, the Beautiful,” “May God thy gold refine, till all success be nobleness and every gain divine.”