American citizenship continues to be one of the most sought-after in the world.
From every corner, over a million flock to the United States each year in search of a new life. Whether on the run from danger, in search of wealth or something completely different.
And yet, despite the country’s clear appeal, citizenship does not necessarily mean adopting a specific identity or displaying patriotism — at least, not in the traditional sense. Some come to this country for work and nothing else. Others proudly wave an American flag or sacrifice their life through service.
But all of them are American citizens. Stemming from a dynamic immigration history that resulted in a vastly diverse population, American identity was built on the right to not subscribe to a single identity.
Debates over national identity are certainly not limited to this country, but the U.S. presents a particularly complex case given its founding and powerful global influence.
“It is why you have different definitions, different ways of valuing what it means to be American,” said Carlos Figueroa, an associate professor of politics at Ithaca College in New York. “We still try to think about this abstract ideal, ‘The land of the free, the home of the brave and pursuit of happiness,’ but that from the ground, in reality, is not the case.”
These questions are nothing new. Since the country’s founding, there have been movements for and against a stricter definition of American identity.
More recently, that nuanced perspective of American identity is being challenged by a growing strain of nationalism. There are proposed updates to the naturalization test that emphasize English proficiency, presidential candidates calling for the repeal of birthright citizenship and the new House of Representatives speaker labeling the country a “Christian nation.”
“Certain people are not aware of the original intent of the concept of citizenship,” Figueroa said. “Politicians, for example, try to sell the so-called ‘American Dream.’ Not everyone wants that, the commitment … You want opportunities, but not necessarily allegiance to a country.”
These ten people are all American citizens, though their stories differ. Together, they represent some of the diverse perspectives about American identity. Click below to learn how they answered, “What Makes an American Citizen?”
Rahmatullah Aka
Immigrated as a refugee
from Afghanistan
Historically, the United States has been a safe haven for people fleeing danger from around the world. In 2022 alone, more than 25,000 people were admitted to the country as refugees. People hope to rebuild their lives in the country, taking advantage of pathways to asylum. These policies are increasingly important today, amid several global crises that have resulted in further displacement of targeted minority groups.
Moving to a foreign country and starting a new life is difficult for anyone, let alone a refugee on the run. Rahmatullah Aka came to the U.S. as a refugee from Afghanistan in 2015, fearing for his life as threats to his safety emerged from the storied instability in the country. He waited years, but soon began his journey to Boston to start afresh, hoping to find a sense of freedom.
“I was [the] same as all the refugees,” Aka said. “I was brought [to the] United States and went through [the] resettlement process, which is establishing in the new community from zero. All the things that you had are left behind.”
Born and raised in Afghanistan, Aka graduated college with a law degree and worked as a legal advisor for the U.S. government in Afghanistan. He worked on a USAID project called Rule of Law Stabilization Program, which supports legal services in the country alongside rampant social and political disruption that continues to plague the region under Taliban rule.
His job was incredibly dangerous. It was common for employees like him to be attacked, kidnapped or even killed, as he said, “when you are involved in [such] employment, there was an imminent target by the insurgents and people involved in those projects were also targets.”
Aka struggled to survive. His saving grace was the Afghan Allies Protection Act of 2009, which issues Special Immigrant Visas to Afghans who work for the U.S. government and consequently experience threats to their lives. Once approved, as Aka was in 2015, it provides a pathway to permanent residency in the U.S. But Aka was not allowed to bring his family along with him.
“On one way, your family will be feeling that you are now going to safe zone,” Aka said, “From myself, feeling that family is left behind. That is a huge challenge.”
It was a difficult transition. But Aka was not completely alone when he landed in Boston. He was welcomed by the International Institute of New England, or IINE, an advocacy organization that supports refugees and immigrants in Massachusetts. They helped him understand American culture, improve his language skills and identify professional and social opportunities.
For Aka, the day he became a U.S. citizen was an unforgettable one, as he reflected on the trouble and time it took for his initial visa to be approved, let alone his green card. For a while, his life was somewhat in limbo. The citizenship was the official recognition of his permanent status in a new country where he had grown within his community and gained legal rights.
“As a refugee, usually you feel locked in place,” Aka said. “As a U.S. citizen … you feel more of a free person than you were before. You feel that now you are equal, having equal rights. Also, you feel that now you are open to go, if you want to go somewhere. That was a big experience for me.”
Aka is also working toward bringing his family to the country. Today, he works as a manager of community services at IINE, where he supports other refugees who resettle in the U.S. with the very same organization that helped him years ago. His personal experience lets him connect with these people, all of whom are in search of safety, permanence and a place where they can build a life while retaining their own identity. In the U.S., Aka was able to find just that.
“Being in the U.S., the area of understanding of the knowledge goes beyond what you think of limitation,” Aka said. “It means you are now connected to a multicultural environment. You are in connection with identity from other countries too. You are keeping a global identity instead of one identity.”
Jui Bhagwat
Former international
student from India
Like many countries, India does not allow its citizens to hold dual citizenship with any other country. So for Jui Bhagwat, the decision to become a United States citizen was difficult. It meant surrendering her native citizenship in the country where she was born and raised and where much of her family still lives.
But at the same time, she could not deny her desire to become American. By the time of her naturalization ceremony in 2019, she had lived in the country for almost 20 years and had two children who were already U.S. citizens. She had built a life here and an identity alongside it.
“It's very much an amalgamation of the two identities, and I present myself in that way,” Bhagwat said. “My identity is tremendously Indian still, there is no doubt about it. But I think like an American in many other ways. So, it's complicated.”
Bhagwat was born and raised in Pune, India, where she also completed her undergraduate education in psychology. She spent two years in Mumbai for her master’s degree before applying to colleges in the U.S. to pursue her doctorate. Bhagwat ended up at Cornell University in Ithaca, New York, through an F-1 visa.
The F-1 visa is a student visa that allows people to temporarily study and live in the U.S. In 2022 alone, more than 400,000 F-1 visas were issued all over the world, remaining a popular pathway for people to come to the country. Indian students hold a significantly large share of those visas.
“There was a fascination with being part of an American university,” Bhagwat said. “It far exceeded all my expectations. The academic system here is just phenomenal. I wanted to experience the country, also equally fascinated with the country.”
Bhagwat was raised in a progressive and privileged family in India, so she did not move to the U.S. out of sheer need for opportunity, as some immigrants often do. But she was rather drawn by the exposure to diverse cultures and experiences that encouraged her to prolong her stay.
“The open-mindedness and the embracing of differences and the non-judgemental nature of looking at every difference out there, I think is uniquely American,” Bhagwat said.
During her doctorate program, Bhagwat met Amit Bhojwani, an old friend from India and her future husband. At the time, he was working in Rochester, New York, on an H-1B visa — a work visa for specialty occupations that provides a pathway to a green card. After Bhagwat’s graduation, the couple moved to Santa Clara, California, and still reside there today. Bhagwat is a professor in the department of psychology at Santa Clara University.
“The first half of my life here, I kept thinking that eventually I would move back,” Bhagwat said, considering she and her husband hold very close ties with their families in India. “I don’t know exactly when it was, but it became … ‘Oh, I think I want to just continue staying here forever.’”
The more time Bhagwat and her husband spent in the country — especially considering their two children were born and raised here — the more they wanted that sense of security and belonging that came with citizenship. After a tedious wait, the couple finally received their green cards in 2012 and became citizens seven years later.
Bhagwat’s naturalization ceremony in Campbell, California, was a special moment for her. It was emotional to come to terms with losing her Indian citizenship but she was simultaneously very touched to stand together with everyone else also receiving their citizenship that same day.
“It was much more emotional than I expected it to be,” Bhagwat said. “There’s a common humanity that binds you, because you’re like, ‘Oh, we all have something in common.’”
As for Bhagwat’s lost Indian citizenship, it was a tough transition. She currently holds an OCI, or Overseas Citizen of India, card for non-Indian citizens who have generational lineage in India.
“What does it mean to not have citizenship of India anymore?” Bhagwat said. “I felt like there was some grief, there was a sense of loss there. But over time ... it actually didn't mean anything. Because the ties are so deep and psychological and have nothing to do with the passport.”
As time passes, Bhagwat identifies influences of American identity on her own identity. She also knows her children will both grow up with that unique Indian-American identity, and appreciates the country where they all can define what those journeys will look like for themselves.
“For whatever its faults, there’s no other place in the world that truly embraces this diversity, this willingness to embrace people from all parts of the world and let them, in some way, be themselves,” Bhagwat said. “I don’t feel forced to adapt or assimilate completely. People understand that there are aspects of me that are from the place that I come from.”
Daan Durlacher
'Accidental American'
living in the Netherlands
One day in 2017, Daan Durlacher sat around a tennis court in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, with his wife and two kids. They were about to watch Durlacher’s nephew play in a tennis match during the University of Alabama’s Senior Day. It was one of the few trips Durlacher — born and raised in the Netherlands — had taken to the United States.
As is often tradition before sporting events, the U.S. national anthem rang out against a red, white and blue flag, triumphantly waving. And something unexpected happened to Durlacher.
“I saw this flag, I heard the national song and I cried,” he said. “For the first time in my life, [I’m] under an American flag and I’m crying.”
Durlacher may have been raised Dutch, but he is also a U.S. citizen. He received the citizenship through his American mother but otherwise holds little connection to the country. He introduces himself as Dutch and was actually planning on renouncing his U.S. citizenship. But in that moment, he knew he could never easily give it up. He realized where he came from.
Durlacher’s U.S. citizenship became complicated when he discovered the unprecedented financial burden that came with it. The U.S. is one of two countries that employs a citizenship-based taxation system rather than residency-based. All U.S. citizens, including those who have never lived or worked in the country like Durlacher, are subject to U.S. taxation — in addition to any taxation from other countries they live or work in.
“It’s an inheritance,” he said. “I didn’t earn it. Now, I pay the price by being taxed. Now, I feel I have a right [to] it.”
The U.S. was a safe haven for Durlacher’s family, especially for his mother’s side. Durlacher’s father was born in Germany to a Jewish family who moved to the Netherlands before World War II, but his mother was born in East Aurora, New York, to immigrant Dutch parents.
When his mother wanted to marry, her father had one condition: her children had to be U.S. citizens. Durlacher’s grandfather was concerned about another European conflict and wanted to make sure the family could take refuge in the U.S. if needed. During the war, there were family members who did not survive. Those who did had traveled to the U.S.
“That was not an active thing in my mind,” Durlacher said, “but somewhere, [the U.S.] stood for a certain freedom and safety.”
The taxes, however, tell a different story. For a while, Durlacher did not even know he was still a U.S. citizen or liable for taxation — he thought he lost his status when he was younger and there was very little information available about the implications of his citizenship.
He discovered he was incorrect when the Foreign Account Tax Compliance Act was implemented in 2010 to mitigate tax evasion. Overseas financial institutions were required to report accounts held by U.S. citizens, and people like Durlacher — informally dubbed “Accidental Americans” — were denied access to banking services.
“Why should I pay tax to a country [where] I’m not using the highway, I’m not using the hospitals, I’m not using anything?” Durlacher said.
Among the millions of U.S. citizens who live abroad, there are an estimated 500,000 of these “Accidental Americans,” according to the 2022 Annual Report to Congress from the Taxpayer Advocate Service. These people must comply or tackle the complicated and expensive process of renouncing their citizenship, which usually requires filing taxes for a few years anyway.
Durlacher went on to co-found Americans Overseas, an independent organization which helps other people in similar situations navigate their compliance and taxation options.
Durlacher chose to comply, initially planning to file only the required years for him to renounce. But today, far beyond that minimum, he is still filing. He said his thoughts always return to the handwritten letter from his maternal grandfather, which prints the condition for his mother’s marriage and the meaning his U.S. citizenship held for his family.
“I still feel like it’s an obligation,” he said.
Nevertheless, Durlacher cannot promise he will never renounce his citizenship — as hard as it would be. When he retires, there is a chance his pension will be taxable. When he dies, his family would bear his tax obligations and he refuses to leave them in that situation. This situation, however uniquely tedious, continues to play a significant role in his life.
“A U.S. citizen is someone who is actively aware of the fact that they are, they are proud,” he said. “That’s the typical U.S. citizen. The other side is the coincidental, not fully aware, accidental…that’s a different citizen.”
Manuela Gonzalez
Former DACA receipient
from Venezuela
After living as an undocumented immigrant in the United States for almost 14 years, Manuela Gonzalez finally received her citizenship in May. Although it cemented her status in the country she had lived in for most of her life, it was not necessarily the happiest occasion given what she and her family went through to get there.
Gonzalez ultimately received her citizenship after her mother qualified for protections under the Violence Against Women Act, or VAWA. VAWA provisions include immigration benefits that allow eligible victims of abuse from U.S. citizens or permanent residents to qualify for permanent residency themselves.
“I am happy that I have this passport now and this representation only because it gives you so much access,” Gonzalez said. “I understand that to get me that access, and to get all of us that access, it required a lot of not-good things.”
In 2001, when Gonzalez was 7 years old, she and her family moved from Venezuela to the U.S. on a year-long visa. Her father, who was in the armed forces, was participating in an English program for international soldiers at the Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. Gonzalez still lives in San Antonio today.
Within a few months of their stay, Gonzalez’s parents separated and eventually divorced. Her father went back to Venezuela, but life there was becoming more and more unstable. So, her mother decided they should remain in the U.S. and they overstayed their visas.
“We didn’t know what we signed up for,” Gonzalez said. “I don’t think my mom did, for sure.”
Like many people who grew up undocumented in the U.S., Gonzalez was left with few resources to navigate her life. She was not sure whether she should disclose her status or how to complete college applications. In 2016, a few years after Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals, or DACA, was introduced, she and her brother were given temporary protection.
Gonzalez’s mother then married a U.S. citizen. Their marriage only lasted three years because her mother was being abused by her new husband. That is how Gonzalez, her mother and her brother, qualified for VAWA and how she eventually received her citizenship. Just in 2022, there were 32,413 VAWA petitions filed, out of which most are still pending and 8,187 were approved.
“It’s really shameful, but it’s like, the more trauma you have, the more likely you are to qualify for one of these visas,” she said. “You have to relive that trauma to your lawyer and your lawyer is happy because, wow, now you qualify for one of these complicated visas. But it’s sad because you have to go through any of that to be eligible for this.”
Even after her naturalization, Gonzalez does not have strong ties to the U.S., or even Venezuela. She said it was circumstance that landed her family in the U.S. If not there., they would have simply ended up in some other country that was easy to migrate to.
Gonzalez’s naturalization ceremony was an interesting experience for her. There were speakers who clearly received their citizenship very easily making light of their experiences. It felt particularly ignorant to Gonzalez, who works as the Texas communications coordinator for the Immigrant Legal Resource Center and sees several people struggle to find a path to citizenship.
Other speakers sought to define the expectations of what new citizens should do.
“There was a professor who was from Africa [and] his whole shtick was … ‘Elon Musk is an immigrant and you have the potential to be an Elon Musk,’” she said. “It’s just too much to tell people, ‘You’re only valuable if you start a startup and it ends up in the Fortune 500.’”
But Gonzalez believes that patriotism and nationalism are “baked into the U.S,” saying, “it benefits a lot of people in high places to have that identity be one singular thing.” To her, someone’s identity within the U.S. should not depend on why they moved to the country.
“This country did not set itself up to be a monolith,” she said. “I do find it funny when people discuss patriotism and say, ‘You have to be X, Y, Z way to be an American. … What makes an American is literally just somebody who wants to build on their culture, has a human-first approach to how they treat people. By that definition, I do feel like there’s a lot of ‘Americans’ that are not American, and I feel like there’s a lot of non-Americans that are very American.”
Sharan Holas-Huggins
Dual citizen of Grenada
and the U.S.
Growing up in Grenada — a Caribbean country with a very tumultuous history with the United States — the last thing Sharan Holas-Huggins thought she would become was a U.S. citizen.
“I felt and saw that every bad thing we were getting was coming from America,” she said. “We got the bad food, we got the bad ways of dressing, the bad ways of talking to one another. Everything gets filtered down.”
American identity and culture were always negative concepts to both Holas-Huggins and her late husband, George Huggins. Nevertheless, later in life, they both found themselves raising their own right hands to become citizens themselves.
Holas-Huggins and her family moved to the U.S. in the 1990s when her husband was working for Oxfam America, a non-profit organization in Massachusetts — where Holas-Huggins still lives. In pursuit of educational opportunities for their daughter, who would soon attend college, they made the move from Chile.
The company took care of everything. The family received their green cards in 1993. Despite Holas-Huggins and her husband being adamant about retaining their Grenadian identity — and not wanting to associate with a country that brought so much pain to their home — they also found themselves wanting more from the place they had spent so much of their lives in.
“Just chatting between ourselves and [saying], ‘Well, we are here for so many years, we are working, we are contributing, we are paying taxes,” she said. “Maybe we should take advantage of becoming American, so at least, we can get something back in return. It’s two hands; I give and I get back.”
It helped that Grenada allows its citizens to hold dual citizenship — a luxury not everyone receives. But Holas-Huggins still does not consider herself American. She does not feel a strong sense of patriotism toward the U.S. She remains steadfast in the opportunity that led her to this country and for her, it stops there.
“America has always advertised itself as that,” she said. “‘We are the richest people in the world, we have the best this, the best that,’ and so people can come here and you can understand … [they just] need a quick fix.”
Holas-Huggins understands why some people believe there should be certain expectations of citizens — in any country, but particularly in the U.S. But to her, it is a fair expectation only when it is met with mutual respect. Especially today, aggressive sentiment from both sides of the political spectrum around who deserves to be in the country continues to emerge.
Holas-Huggins dislikes that political tension, which very often involves conversations around immigration and citizenship. She called back to former President Donald Trump’s infamous statement to “The Squad” — Reps. Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Ilhan Omar, Ayanna Pressley and Rashida Tlaib — telling them to go back to where they came from.
“You can invite me to become a citizen, but how are you going to treat me as your equal?” Holas-Huggins said. “And that comes into play all the time.”
Diane Joly
Dual citizen of Brazil
and the U.S.
Diane Joly (pronounced “Jee-ah-nee” Joly) has worked a lot with immigrant communities in the United States. Today, she works as the citizenship program manager at the Massachusetts Immigrant & Refugee Advocacy Coalition, or MIRA, where she helps people through the naturalization process. After all, she went through it herself too.
Day by day, with every person she worked with, she understands more about the value and meaning of U.S. citizenship — and how it varies for different people.
“For some people, this process is a life-saver,” she said. “Just learning their stories, it just made me realize, ‘Okay, sometimes we might take this for granted,’ but that’s something that might be very special for some people.”
Joly was not planning on permanently living in the U.S. Originally from Brazil, she moved to the U.S. in 2013 to study and work as an au pair. She wanted to learn English and be exposed to different cultures before taking her experiences back to Brazil, where she worked as a pharmacist.
However, “life happened,” she said. While in the U.S., she met someone and married, deciding she would continue her life there. In fact, one of the largest U.S. naturalization categories in 2022 was spouses of existing citizens.
Shortly after marrying, Joly pursued her permanent residency in the U.S. and then became a citizen in 2019. Her naturalization ceremony was a special moment for her. She was touched to hear everyone’s different stories and very proud to reach the crucial milestone.
“I also want to be part of the team of U.S. citizens,” she said, considering her husband is a citizen and her future children would be too. “Of course, one of the main reasons as well is to be able to vote here. Not being worried about being deported or losing my status here. It’s for this safety of being able to call this country my home.”
Although Joly’s journey to citizenship was initially led by opportunity and family, today she does feel a sense of involvement as an American. She said it made sense to be “fully integrated,” both politically and socially. That sentiment has remained important in her work too.
Through MIRA’s new New American Changemakers program, Joly encourages new citizens to become more involved with the country and more aware of their community. The program offers workshops that teach government structure, how to contact representatives and more.
“Our goal is to make sure that people become more civically engaged after they become U.S. citizens,” she said, “and also become voters, if that’s something they would consider.”
MIRA sees a lot of people come in with that desire to contribute to the country, Joly said. But she knows that is not the case for everyone. She sees many people who only apply for citizenship because they want to bring family members to live with them or for other specific purposes, and that is where their involvement stops.
“That’s okay,” she said. “We should respect whatever their wishes are. … We’re not going to be forcing them, like, “Now, you’re going to be a U.S. citizen, you’re going to have to do this and that.’”
Joly also sympathizes with the emotional conflict some people face. When she became a U.S. citizen, she retained her Brazilian citizenship, which supports her continuing connection to the country where most of her family still lives. If she had to give up her native citizenship, like some people must, she said it would have made the decision a lot harder.
Regardless, Joly still thinks a responsibility of holding U.S. citizenship is being involved with the country, advocating for the community and contributing to making it better everyday.
“Not everyone will feel the same way I feel,” she said. “But I think educating them for the rights and responsibilities of becoming a U.S. citizen, that’s something we should always do as well. … At the end of the day, they will choose whatever they choose.”
Caitlin Monahan
Former dual citizen
of Singapore and the U.S.
Shortly after her 22nd birthday, Caitlin Monohan stood outside the United States embassy in Singapore facing a critical decision. Her entire life, she had been a dual citizen of Singapore and the U.S. — born in Singapore to a Singaporean mother and an American father. But in a country that does not allow dual citizenship, she had to choose one over the other.
The embassy officials walked Monahan through her choices. If she gave up her Singaporean citizenship, she would walk out the door as a tourist. She would relinquish her passport and other identification. She would only be able to stay in the country for 90 days at a time. It would be very hard for her to get a job. Building a permanent life in Singapore would be tricky.
“I had to sit in the room in silence,” she said, “just being like, ‘Okay, I’m sure. I’m doing this, it’s all down to me right now.’”
That day, Monahan left the embassy with only her U.S. citizenship intact. In the eyes of the government, she was American — and only American. But for her, it was not so simple.
Growing up, Monahan visited the U.S. to see her father’s side of the family and then attended college there. She will also soon move to New York. But her parents and younger brother will still live in Singapore, where she was primarily raised. For her, it is still home.
But as someone who wants to build her career in the U.S., where she sees more professional opportunities, Monahan also understands the difficulties that come with working as a non-citizen. Which led to her decision to retain her U.S. citizenship.
“That’s what was driving me, rather than the country itself,” she said. “I feel like you’re supposed to consider it home, like be proud of where you’re from. … I feel like it’s a little different for me.”
Since 1967, the U.S. has permitted its citizens to hold citizenship in other countries while still retaining their U.S. citizenship. Countries like Australia and Greece have followed suit, claiming it supports citizens who work and travel overseas. But countries like India or Austria do not ever allow it or force citizens to choose when they reach a certain age, like in Singapore.
When Monahan, now 23 years old, renounced her citizenship, she convinced herself she was still Singaporean. To her, it was important to retain her sense of national identity and belonging. But she said she always recognized her stay in Singapore would not be permanent.
In addition to Singapore, Monahan also grew up in Hong Kong and Indonesia. She held tight to her community of globe-trotting people, even when she came back to Singapore. Those people have also expectedly moved on to other countries, just like she always planned to do herself.
“It’s not the same anymore,” she said. “When I’m back, it’s mostly for family. … I just realized that my time in Singapore is over.”
Monahan spent summer vacations visiting her father’s family in Saratoga Springs, New York. Despite her citizenship, she always saw those trips as holidays. Monohan lived in the U.S. for the first time when she attended Marist College in Poughkeepsie, New York. The college primarily had students from the surrounding states and she still felt very separate.
When she lived in Asia, she said people only saw the American in her. But in the U.S., people only see the Asian in her.
“I still don’t fully feel American when I’m there,” she said, “I still feel like a foreigner.”
Looking at the growing rates of immigration to the U.S., there are many people who would do anything to be in Monohan’s position — to be born with U.S. citizenship or be able to choose it. Monahan knows the value of what she holds, but she considers those who were born and raised in the U.S. to be the luckiest.
“A lot of them don’t have to make the decision of, ‘Do I want to leave here or be from here?’” she said, considering they would only ever know one country as home.
Monahan said her identity ultimately has more to do with her feeling of belonging, not the country that issued her passport.
“At the end of the day, for me personally, it’s kind of luck,” she said. “It’s a piece of paper where you just happened to be from.”
Maurice PalePale
Samoan who naturalized through the military
Maurice PalePale had always dreamed of being in the military. His mother was a police officer and he similarly wanted to serve his country, telling his mother, “I want to be a soldier, I want to carry a gun, I want to protect you, I want to protect our family.”
But PalePale’s dreams were temporarily stalled when he found out he did not meet one important qualification for an Air Force Security Forces position: he was not an United States citizen. The thing is, until he met with an Air Force recruiter, he thought he was one.
PalePale always had a U.S. passport. But he was born in American Samoa, a U.S. territory, and was therefore a national, not a citizen. Nationals have most of the same rights as citizens. But they are not allowed to vote in federal elections, hold public office or work some federal jobs.
Growing up, he was somewhat familiar with being a national, but did not realize there was a difference. When he discovered the truth, he felt a little down that there were opportunities he was prohibited from because of his status, especially when that status was such an important part of his identity.
“I was [at a loss] for words,” he said. “I’ve always seen myself as American and I was proud to be that. I always thought to myself, ‘Okay, I’m at a place where people want to come [to].’”
But he really wanted the job. Upon speaking to a recruiter, he discovered he could become a citizen through Basic Military Training, a 7.5-week-long training program for Air Force airmen at the 37th Training Wing base in San Antonio, Texas. So, that’s what he did.
The training wing has newly revived its partnership with U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services, or USCIS, to provide naturalization services, so trainees can become citizens by the time they graduate from the program.
The U.S. military has often provided pathways to citizenship for immigrants who serve. Under the Immigration and Nationality Act, provisions allow former and current members of the armed forces to apply for citizenship. According to data from USCIS, more than 158,000 members of the military have been naturalized since 2002, both abroad and within the country.
On Sept. 26, the day PalePale received his citizenship, he was understandably nervous. It was a big day. But his instructors and friends were there to support him. After it was official, he gleefully phoned his family — it felt like everything was falling into place.
“Just having that certificate in my hand and going through the interviews and everything, it just made me more proud to be the person I am,” he said. “Now, there are more doors open for me. … I can actually be a part of the people.”
Today, PalePale is an Airman First Class at Eglin Air Force Base in Florida. Regardless of his somewhat surprising journey toward citizenship, he has always known the value of his identity.
Although PalePale was born in American Samoa, he was raised on a Pacific island called Tonga, in a life that he described as “difficult.” Like many others before him, he initially came to the U.S. to seek a better life for himself and to support his family.
“In Tonga, family is everything,” he said. “Coming to the states is just really like a golden ticket. … My mom always said, ‘When you go back there, will you remember when you grew up?’”
Susana Pimiento
Dual citizen of Colombia
and the U.S.
In 2005, two weeks before Susana Pimiento’s United States naturalization ceremony, she received a phone call from the Immigration and Naturalization Service. She had been selected to deliver a speech during the ceremony about the importance of her new citizenship.
To some, it may have been an honor and an opportunity to voice proud sentiment about belonging to their new country. But for Pimiento, who had primarily moved to the country for marriage and was already hesitant about applying for citizenship, not so much.
“I wasn’t going to stand up and say, ‘Oh, it’s the greatest thing after sliced bread,’” she said.
Pimiento’s husband, Edward Hammond, answered the call and immediately knew what she would say, politely declining the offer. He knew she was not necessarily thrilled about her new identity in the country. And till date, she does not call herself an American.
Pimiento grew up in Pasto, Colombia, near the Andes, in what she describes as a very isolated and backward part of the country. Her parents encouraged her to seek opportunities elsewhere. She went to Michigan as a high school exchange student before attending college in Colombia, spending a semester in Spain, finishing graduate school in the Netherlands and backpacking in India.
Pimiento experienced enriching global travel and a bountiful career as an attorney. In 1997, shortly after graduate school, she was working for the World Wide Fund for Nature on the Convention on Biological Diversity, a United Nations treaty. Through work-related travels to Madrid, she met her future husband and in Nov. 1999, they got married.
That is why Pimiento moved to the U.S. — first moving to Seattle. Naturally, she pursued her permanent residency and received her green card and then her citizenship.
She does not regret her choice. She loves her husband and they have a 21-year-old daughter and a life they have built together. But she does ponder her decision. She still retains a strong connection to Colombia. Her and her husband were able to live there for two years and it was then that it really dawned on her how different her life would have been had she stayed.
“Little did I know what I was giving up,” she said. “That’s part of being young and in love. … If it had been just a rational decision, probably I wouldn’t have come.”
The reason she ultimately became a citizen was because it would greatly simplify her international travel for work. It was, however, a very tough decision. As an attorney who cares deeply about nonviolence and international peacekeeping, she felt — and still feels — morally in conflict with U.S. military priorities and does not feel comfortable identifying within it.
“This idea of patriotism and militarism that is so much into the U.S., it was definitely not me,” she said. “I found it very, very off-putting. … I don’t feel American.”
On a day to day basis, she does not voice these opinions often, especially to people who have little shared experience. She knows the definition of citizenship, as proven by her own experiences, is complex.
“Since I don’t feel American, the definition excludes me probably,” she said. “I guess the big question is if the naturalization process can turn you into an American citizen.”
Liam Tucker
Expatriate citizen
raised internationally
Until college, Liam Tucker had never really lived in the United States, despite being born there. With parents who were international school teachers, he was always on the move to the next country. But there was one quintessential tradition that defined much of his childhood.
“I spent Fourth of July with my American family, no matter where I was in the world,” he said. “When I came back here, it was a slice of life that was almost foreign, but [also] some place that all my family lived.”
Tucker’s identity as an American could have been simple. He is a U.S. citizen. He has always spoken with an American accent, held an avid passion for baseball and adored his American rap, rock and pop music. But between stays in countries like Nepal, Thailand, China and Jamaica, it was not simple for him to distinguish his own national identity.
Tucker was seen as too American when he was abroad and too foreign when he was in the U.S. He lived in the U.S. for the first time when he attended Marist College in Poughkeepsie, New York — the town where his own grandmother was from. But he still fell in best with the international student crowd.
“My community at college was very accepting of who I was, which was this third-culture nomad,” he said. “But the American students that I came into contact with, it was a 50/50 bet. Would they understand and be able to relate or would they immediately try to put me in a box or maybe not even understand what my cultural identity was?”
Tucker is also keenly aware how Americans are perceived by the rest of the world. He attended high school in Jamaica, which has a traumatic history with the Atlantic slave trade, so the way people perceived him — a white American man — did not match the way he saw himself.
He understands the privilege of his identity, but he does not feel American and especially did not when he was younger. After all, he had moved to Jamaica after spending most of his life in Asia, attending international schools with students from all over the world.
“My perception of the reception was a little bit negative,” he said. “As soon as I was faced with the realities of what other cultures perceive American citizenship as, I realized that’s not what I wanted to be.”
Tucker had seen so much of the world at a very early age that he did not feel a sole belonging to the country he was legally identified within. Today, there are millions of U.S. citizens who live outside the country, whether for work or other purposes, who may face similar dilemmas.
Tucker lives and works in Boston and will be around for the foreseeable future. Looking back, he knows his sociopolitical views are a combination of influences from other countries and cultures. As a U.S. citizen whose life was never limited by borders, he continues to grapple with the state of the country he now lives in.
“I have a lot of views that conflict with American citizenship and national identity,” he said. “I don’t think my citizenship makes me feel responsible for the political state in the U.S. That’s just where I prefer not to be considered overly American.”
But he still holds some pride in his citizenship. He said, “Nobody is 100% happy with the country they’re from,” and thinks his commitment to progress and development makes him more of a U.S. citizen than just his passport.
“I like to try to associate myself as a citizen of the world and as an American,” he said, “with a responsibility to all people.”
From the Chinese Exclusion Act in 1882 to the Help HAITI Act of 2010, there have been hundreds of immigration laws passed in the U.S. that have dictated who is let into the country and under what conditions. Over the last few years, those same immigration laws, and more, continue to be debated, even as naturalizations continue and trends emerge about where these citizens are coming from and how they were able to naturalize.
The concept of American identity will always be complicated, and historically always has been. Starting with the 19th century nativist Know Nothing movement, which called for a 21-year naturalization period, to polls today that observe declines in American patriotism.
With the 2024 presidential election on the horizon, immigration and the meaning of American citizenship will continue to be tossed back and forth, serving as proof of the complexity of identity within this country.
The header image primarily includes photos in the public domain. Some images are from Flickr licensed via CC BY 4.0 Deed, CC BY-NC 4.0 Deed or CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 Deed, from authors Jay Baker, Emily Brouwer and Heather DiMasi.
Produced by Pavithra Rajesh, candidate for the MS degree in the Media Innovation & Data Communication program at the Northeastern University School of Journalism. © 2023
