Angie is America

Angie is America

By Daniella Silva, an American.

I want to tell you about how my mom ran for her life, crossed the border, walked on the desert and held my sister in her arms on the 4th of July. I want to write about how I cry whenever I hear “America the Beautiful” and how I am a child of immigrants but, I never felt like a child of America. I want to write about how my sister is more American than me.

I want to tell you that she came to this country when she was 3 months old and didn’t even know how to speak yet. I want to tell you that she was weaned on the land. I want to tell you how much she loves makeup and hip-hop.

I want to tell you how much I want to know Mexico. I want to tell you how much I want to be Mexico. I want to tell you how much I have never seen Mexico. And I want to tell you how much Angie is not Mexico

She was born in Mexico. She saw Mexico. She came from Mexico. But, she is not Mexico.

She does not know that country. She loves this country. She wants this country to seep into her skin. She never thinks she will leave this country.

It is not an option. Where would you send her to?

A country without makeup and magic? A country without love and this soil and hip-hop? A country without her two beautiful sons who are nothing less than the very moon, the very sun? A country without her sisters who are all Americans?

A home that does not look like America? A home that can’t be anything like America? A home that can’t speak or breathe America? A home that isn’t allowed to be Angie’s because it is not America? A home that was never a home because all Angie knows is America?

I am American, America is home, I too, am America. I am America and Angie is my home. Angie is home and home is America. Angie is home and America. Angie is American, as I sometimes wish I could be American. Angie is America.