When did America become “the country where I was born?”

The most simplistic answer would be that momentous event occurred on September 21st, 1966 in early morning when I made my debut at the (now defunct) Manhattan Infirmary.* Because, although neither of my parents were American citizens, and only one of them is even listed on my birth certificate, by birthright I was declared American, making the U.S. my country.

I guess it remains to be seen if this will still be the situation when the (not)Supreme Court hears the upcoming case prompted by an executive order signed by the self anointed king.

Growing up in a household headed by a single, immigrant parent I learned to appreciate the opportunities presented by the country to which my mother immigrated. My brother and I had access to education and opportunities which hadn’t been available to my mother in post-WWII Europe and we were taught to pursue both of these.

We each hold graduate degrees and have achieved success in our chosen careers.

During my years of studying, I began to travel, visiting Europe for the first time and returning as frequently as I was able to meet family and explore countries I had only previously dreamed of seeing.

As I visited Germany, Ireland, France, the Netherlands, the U.K. and the Soviet Union, I learned a bit about how Americans were perceived by people outside of the U.S. There were stereotypes about our loud voices, our limited palates and overt consumption.

In Ireland, cousins informed me that if I noticed overweight people in the various pubs and attractions we visited, I should assume they would be fellow Americans. We had a bit of craic at the expense of a cousin’s young children when they met me as I gamely portrayed an American tourist seeking a mall and McDonald’s in the countryside of Co. Clare.

I developed a tendency to feel a little embarrassed by my fellow Americans when traveling and began to keep my distance from them in public spaces.

I didn’t want to associate with them.

There were a handful of occasions when Europeans approached me, and whomever I was traveling with, to express admiration for the U.S. and the accomplishments of Americans. Normandy comes to mind immediately as one of these locations, as well as Moscow.

In recent years, however, this has not been the case. I recall being in Nuremberg with my Uncle, his wife and my oldest son taking in a soccer match in a bar one evening. Another spectator, hearing the conversation between my family (I swear we weren’t speaking at a particularly high volume!), came to stand next to me. During a lull, he looked me directly in the eyes and said, “Donald Trump. Really?”

I was mortified.

I started to more frequently assert my status as a first generation American, trying to distance myself from a country which is so clearly heading rapidly in the wrong direction. I pursued evidence of my status as a German citizen and obtained my German passport, which allows me to live and work in the E.U. My sons have done the same.

I now think of my parents foray into America, the land of equality and opportunity, as an experiment, rather than a commitment which I’m inclined to continue.

America in its current incarnation is not my country.

I don’t want to live in a place where doctors can’t provide quality medical care to patients seeking reproductive services without being indicted.

I’m not interested in being ruled by a government which is comprised of unqualified oligarchs who ultimately are seeking to enrich themselves at the expense of those in need.

I will not associate with ignorant, racist people who simply do not understand that immigrants more closely resemble them than any current Trump administration cabinet member ever will.

I can’t feel anything but shame for this country where I was born.

This is not my country.

I just happened to be born here.

*Funnily enough, I learned many years later that this was also the precise time when I became a German citizen.