COLUMN: born in the USA, now proud of it

From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '99 From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '99Move your ass, sweetheart!" It was when I heard these words that I first cared about being American. It was a sticky-hot July 4 night in midtown Manhattan, a record 99 degrees on an evening that made breathing as laborious as studying for midterms. Children's hands leaked gooey warm ice cream, men wiped their brows on their shirts already turned a shade darker because of sweat stains and the typical screaming babies who always seem to show up at large functions were right on time. Mothers frantically looked for children who seemed to weave through the crowd like tiny mice, teenagers casually nodded to one another in that "I'm too cool to even SPEAK" kind of way and police officers tried to maintain order by endearingly insisting that we all, well, move our asses. As an 8-year-old, I remember not feeling flooded with longings for the "Old Country" but instead snickering in a corner with friends at the funny (or alternatively, grotesque) picture of a woman being tested for trachoma. "Wow, look how they're sticking that hook in her eye!" "DUDE, it looks like her eyelid is gonna rip right off!" Your federal tax dollars at work for a few snotty 8-year-olds to laugh at one of the United States' most sacred and important institutions. Ah, America. Land of the free, home of the brat. In the generations before me, that sense of debt to the United States -- the country that accepted my family when no one else would -- had fallen through the cracks of my family's success. Like so many other American immigrants, theirs was not a rags-to-riches story, but one of working long hours selling sawdust to butchers. My life wasn't about that; it was about applying to colleges, getting a job, hanging out with friends. I felt as far removed from this gratitude as I did from the cartoon mouse in An American Tale. On that horribly hot clichZ day in July, I remembered what had been forgotten generations before me. For a brief Wonder Years-like second, a hush fell over the crowd as the fireworks began. Babies were content, children were in awe, parents smiled and even teenagers abandoned their usual apathy. As I looked over the crowd, feeling more like Fred Savage's preachy voiceover than ever, I realized that the shoving, the sweating, the screaming were all parts of feeling American. Whether you felt it while struggling to get into the country at the turn of the century, or at a modern immigration desk, or even on the subway looking for space to cram your hand onto the pole, being American is the screaming babies, the sweat stains, the runny ice cream. It is the collective memory of waiting to get somewhere you really want to go, of pushing, of shoving, of doing whatever it takes to get there. But it's more than that. It's the awe and amazement when you arrive. It's the appreciation that somehow gets lost on the way to success. The quiet wonder at the fireworks as children and adults step back and forget how hot and tired they are, enveloped in the sensation of seeing something beautiful. The American experience is a rusty see-saw of these events, teetering between dangerous uncertainties and accomplished goals. Perhaps you won't appreciate our country because you lack knowledge of your own family's story of immigration. Perhaps you have the information but it seems too remote to be personal. But then one day it will click -- and then, you will realize that for this, it was worth moving our asses to get here.