I Am an American, Too by Marie Cartier

I am an American.
I am proud to be an American.
I am not proud of everything America does—
But I am proud of democracy—
of the idea of democracy.
And I do not want to waste my shot, either.

I am an American.
The flag is mine—not just yours.
You don’t own it. You with the flag shirt
over a map of the U.S.
and the words “we’re full.”
Sorry. But you don’t own America, or the flag.
And by the way, we are not “full.”
Sorry. But you don’t own America, or the flag.
And by the way, we are not “full.”
I am the child of immigrants—as are many, many of you.
I watch fireworks at a block party and across the street
from where I stand, a house displays a banner that reads, “JESUS 2024.”

Jesus as a write-in candidate?
As a third-party option?
So…who do you suggest we vote for if Jesus/ Jesu’s
is on the ballot?
Because you don’t own Jesus.
I have a Ph.D. in religion, so…
hold my beer.

And trust me—
Jesus made friends with prostitutes, fed the hungry,
clothed the homeless and kicked the money lenders out of the church.
 Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me. –Matthew 41
You don’t Jesus. Or love.
You don’t own America.
You don’t own the red, white and blue.
Fourth of July.
Or patriotism.

My wife is a veteran, Navy.
My father got the purple heart in World War II.
My grandfather fought in World War I.

My father even took a bullet. It hit him – it hit his belt buckle.
It bent into an “L,”
which he always said stood for “lucky.”

So, I have as much right to the flag
as you. And I don’t know your story.
So—maybe I have even more “right,” if that’s how you’re
measuring things.

We are in an America where I am supposed
to recognize your “love” of America as somehow more valid,
truer…and maybe my love of America
as somehow misplaced.  Like
I don’t understand America.

I understand America.
Listen, I have dual citizen ship with Ireland. I’m half Irish on my mother’s side.
I’ve been to Cork.
I’ve been where the ocean breaks and breaks on the shore where they all left
to come here—America. To find a life. To find a way
to stay alive. To find a way—to eat.

My grandmother at fourteen with one trunk
labelled “Mary T. Curtin.”
And—two generations later—here I am. My grandmothers– both of them immigrants—
both of them cleaning ladies.
And here I am — a college professor.
My Canadian grandmother, who spoke of fairies and Native foods-
-and how all the children in her family got
one orange each for Christmas. That was their sole gift.
And here I am. Living in California.
The land of citrus. My neighbor
regularly drops
bags of oranges at my front door.

And –here I am. A lesbian married to a lesbian—legally
in America. Here I am.
I am not proud of everything America does.
I am not proud of everything America does.
But I am proud to be an American.

I am America, too.
I am Catholic and a witch and I love Jesus, too.
Whoever he was.

Although I doubt, he’ll be on the 2024 ballot.

–Marie Cartier

July 6, 2024