To be American is to Dream

Note from the Author: I write this post from a privileged American experience. This post is intended to encourage hope and envision a future beyond unproductive fear and terror. It is intended to be naive and idyllic. I fully recognize that not all Americans have my experience, and I do not to discount, excuse, or ignore centuries of American administrative murder, conquest, and forced relocation of native peoples, human trafficking and enslavement of African peoples, or the recent horrific incidents of ICE disappearing people and tearing families apart.

I wasn’t planning on writing another post until I returned home. However, my partner and I are abroad and she, unfortunately, is ill. I am on 24 hour quarantine with her and I have time to soak up my amazing view of a grandiose Princess cruise ship, listen to the soothing sounds of a beeping forklift crashing against metal dumpsters, and feel the snap of butter-like flakes of a 2-day old croissant between my fingers.

Despite the circumstances, I am happy to say that folks we’ve met on this trip have been quite welcoming to us. Whenever I see the early 2000s liberal internet lore recirculate a story of some backpacker putting a Canadian flag on their items so no one knows he’s an American, I feel exasperated. Granted, this story could be earlier than the 2000s; my main reference is Bush-era. Inevitably when the US is in distress, someone will bring this story to my attention when I mention I’m traveling abroad, and I want to shake them. Because, I’m going to say something radical here:

Being American isn’t shameful.

This 4th of July, Americans are grieving. We are grieving the loss of what our founding fathers fought so hard for, what they (attempted) to prevent, what we all thought was unshakeable. The surprising bit? The rest of the world is grieving with us.

The American empire has collapsed. The idea that we shouldn’t travel at a time like this or that we should travel incognito or experience shame for being American or feel guilt spending money on travel is…propaganda. This message is meant to keep us isolated. Truthfully, it’s been refreshing to be abroad. We’ve found comfort in like-minded people from all over the world who are just as scared as we are, but who are also just as willing to comfort us and give us advice on how to migrate.

To all my non-US readers, migration is something that Americans are seriously considering this 4th of July. As a very out lesbian who publicly writes about anarchy, I am weighing my options. However, there is always a question that stopped me when I was scared in 2017, felt trapped in 2020, and thought it couldn’t happen again in 2024:

“How do I know when it’s time?”

Starting in January 2025, I sought to answer this question by reading up on my own immigration story. I spent a considerable amount of time reading up about the Irish potato famine. I knew my family came over during the famine, but I had no concept of why or what the conditions were like. All I knew was that we were from Ireland and immigrated because of the famine. When I began reading about the atrocities, I was both horrified and in awe about our story of survival.

To give you a visual, when the first wave of Irish immigrants came to New York and Boston, the United States press criticized England for improper treatment of its people. Americans were horrified to see “walking skeletons” coming off the boat, with nothing but rags for clothes and sunken, tired eyes.

Even though England had been warned of Ireland’s desperate conditions, they still felt that the Irish were leeches on English resources. Grain had been sent during 1845 under Sir Robert Peel, and when grain prices soared, it was then rationed, and then there was no grain left to distribute. Lord John Russell took a more laissez-faire approach after 1846 and placed the responsibility of the famine on workhouses and landowners, who were not able to keep up with the demand. England sent representatives to collect taxes from landowners and workhouses who housed paupers one breath away from death, who worked until they * literally * fell over dead from starvation.

England then began blocking humanitarian aid, including American aid, attempting to reach Ireland. The English who had land in Ireland and those who worked for the British government pleaded with Lord John Russell to offer more aid to Ireland.

He refused, stating that the starving population of Ireland was a holy cleansing and God’s will.

The Irish people as well as the British were kept in the dark about what was actually happening. The press was heavily censored, with Irish language and local underground “zines” severely punishable. British press mostly focused on how the Irish famine was the fault of the Irish, and so, American press became one of the most reliable sources of truth for reshaping public opinion of the famine.

Eventually, landlord assisted emigration, Poor Law Guardians, and other programs made it more affordable for landlords and the British government to kick the Irish out of their own country and start over in the United States and Canada.

What is most gutting is that most Irish-Americans aren’t even aware of this history. The Irish immigrants kept their heads down, worked hard, tried to not bring any attention to their ancestry, and assimilated as quickly as they could. Yet, when they came to the United States, one thing remained: their patriotism.

Migration is one of the most human experiences. If you are alive today, reading this post, it is because your ancestors migrated. If you will not migrate in your lifetime, someone in your future will.

If you are thinking about leaving the United States, you are not alone. I would argue confidently that a majority of Americans fear for their survival because our people are already starving, sick, and in mass amounts of debt.

The BBB and Alligator Alcatraz? They are intended to bury us alive, nail our coffins shut, and muffle our screams of protest.

If we do manage to survive, we shall become like our ancestors who came before us: walking skeletons with sunken, tired eyes.

However, even with this dark history and with a bleak future ahead, I can say with utmost delusional confidence that people around the world are ready to help, with more than TikTok dances and sensational news stories about remote Italian villages that may or may not subsidize relocation.

Through processing my grief of losing my country, and through learning my ancestry, I’ve had to reckon with my patriotism. In order to make sustainable changes, I must have hope for the future. To have hope for the future, I need to cling to a vision of America I’m proud of, even if that list minuscule, and envision something better.

Really, the most dangerous thing we can do is be patriotic, to say, I’m proud to be an American.

I’m proud I was in San Francisco when gay marriage was legalized and participated in SF Dyke March.

I’m proud of my local communities who want a better future for themselves and their kids.

I’m proud to eat peanut butter as a condiment.

I’m proud to have the second largest measure of personal space.

Lastly, and most importantly, I’m proud that as an American I am encouraged to dream.

We are worthy of our wildest dreams.

It’s not good enough to fight back from fear of repercussions anymore.

Think about WHY you and I show up to protests, find community with our local stitch ‘n bitch, and have difficult conversations with lazy friends about local elections.

We need to begin again. Let’s steer these conversations to the future, to dream, have hope, and envision what Our America looks like.

Even if that means starting fresh somewhere else.

What’s more American than a dreamer?

Stay safe.

xoxo