American.

The 2020 census man came around. He was white, middle-aged.

Asked how many of us there were.

Asked us our ages.

Asked us our ethnicity--hispanic, black, or white?

Then he asked where we came from. Where we originated from.

Where my father's fathers, came from.

"Wow," I exhaled wearily, "How does that matter? They really still ask these kinds of questions?"

"Yes," he sniped. No pauses, no hesitation.

I sighed in defeat and answered like a historian, "British, Irish, Western European mostly. Mom's came over as Irish-British immigrants. Dad's came to Jamestown."

His stature changed, he looked at me with his face raised and lit up now.

"Full American," He decided with approval, and he jotted it down on his electronic form.

"European immigrants," I wanted to reply, but didn't; shame choking my throat like a Thanksgiving turkey dinner.

My ancestors weren't here first.

"Jamestown," he said to himself again, filling out the questionnaire.

I should have never mentioned that place.

He didn't question me much after that. Because I wasn't just white.

I was American.

2020

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