American Like Me

Anna Akana explores the clash of cultures she experienced growing up with a Japanese father and a Filipino mother. She and her siblings grew up learning mostly Japanese culture: “[My mother] thought that her own culture was too crass and low-class, opting instead to enforce my father’s Japanese values” (219). Akana explains both her parents experienced poverty as children. Her mother’s poverty resulted in street smarts like thriftiness and an instinct for good deals, while her father’s poverty brought about dedication, routine, and responsibility. Akana often felt embarrassed by what she calls her mother’s shamelessness: Her mother was loud, sometimes offensive, and frugal.

Because of the contrast between her parents, however, Akana has a better hold on reality. She credits her father’s business mindset for instilling in her a strong grasp of business, while her mother’s focus on art, self-expression, and exploration help her in her artistic endeavors. She loves both of her parents for what they’ve imparted, affirming their combined qualities “make me both Asian and American” (223).

Laurie Hernandez didn’t set out to be a role-model, so when a random reporter covering the Olympics asked her, “Laurie, how does it feel to be the first US-born Latina gymnast to make the US Olympic team in more than thirty years?” (225), Hernandez nearly froze. She knew her grandmother was from Puerto Rico and that her parents were born in New York, but “Latina” as an identity marker wasn’t something Hernandez had been consciously fighting to bolster. With the question, however, Hernandez realized all her hard work coupled with her background and her accomplishments in gymnastics, she was a role model to many who saw themselves in her story and her success.

Hernandez credits her family with always being there to help support her dreams, and she especially credits her grandmother, who died in 2016. Before Hernandez’s stint on Dancing With the Stars, which she would later win, the show interviewed her grandmother. In the interview, her grandmother told Hernandez to continue being “fantastic” and true to herself.

Along with memories of her grandmother fixing her “kinky” hair before school, this affirmation from her grandmother to be the best she could stuck with Hernandez. She embraces the role model that others see in her because of her family and how proud she is to be a successful gymnast, Latina, and Puerto Rican.

Kal Penn’s short essay centers on the prevalence of impossibility in people’s minds. People both within the Indian American community and outside of it often told Penn he’d never succeed as an actor because there wasn’t a place for Indian American in Hollywood. This adversity, and Penn’s experience with overcoming it, allowed him to transition into public service when he put his acting on hold to work for the Obama campaign and, once Obama won, the Obama administration.

Penn draws parallels to Obama’s victory and his own successes. In 2007, many people within the democratic party told Obama he couldn’t win:

At the time, Obama was trailing in the polls and was fairly unpopular within his own political party, which was very busy telling him that what he was doing was quite impossible (237).

Penn was both motivated and moved by Obama’s campaign because he not only shared Obama’s values but because he saw the same struggle against the “impossible narrative” of success running through Obama’s campaign. And he sought to beat said narrative. Penn wraps up discussing a phone call he made to his parents aboard Air Force One. This is a rite-of-passage, where those aboard for the first time are allowed to call someone. Having made the impossible possible, Penn calls his parents. He ends his essay by imploring Americans—and people in general—to “[…] support each other. Let’s keep doing those beautiful, impossible things” (239).

In Anjelah Johnson-Reyes’s humorous essay about her childhood in San Jose, California, she jokes about her last name being a white surname, admits she doesn’t speak Spanish and, as a child, didn’t live near a large number of Mexican Americans. However, her family still held onto Mexican traditions; they incorporated these traditions—like eating tamales for Christmas—with American traditions so a dinner of tamales also included ham and stuffing and rice and beans. Birthdays were large family gatherings that included potato sack races and bobbing for apples.

Most of the essay details Johnson-Reyes’s adolescent attempts to identify as a chola: “I wanted to wear the dark lip liner, the bandana, the feathered hair. […] There was just something so appealing about being a tough chick. They didn’t care what other people thought of them” (242). Johnson-Reyes admits she wanted to identify with cholas so much because they embraced their Latino identity and never had to worry about proving themselves. Moreover, her parents had recently divorced, and Johnson-Reyes felt more hurt by the separation than she professed. At 12, she resolved to never let anyone hurt her again.

Johnson-Reyes only went so far into the chola lifestyle and credits her mother for steering her onto the right course before things got out of hand. She’s still friends with many of the cholas she befriended as a teenager and always invites them with VIP status to her comedy shows when she’s in town. She likes to demonstrate that all stories deserve a voice, that diversity means different things to different people—even those with the same ethnicity—and that no one needs to prove themselves or their identity to anyone else.

Martin Sensmeier recalls his idyllic childhood in Yakutat, Alaska. The small fishing village is home to many people from Tlingit descent, where everyday life includes fishing, hunting wild game, and playing basketball. Sensmeier comically affirms that everyone—including professionals and adults—plays basketball. He became so good he had a chance at a college scholarship if he really wanted it. Though Sensmeier struggled with poverty, especially at times when his family had to go without electricity or other services, he praises Yakutat as a small community where everyone looks out for everyone else: “It is a beautiful place—not one you need to escape” (258).

Despite this sentiment, Sensmeier initially believed he needed to leave home to find himself and become an actor. As a child, he loved watching movies and identified with characters like Richie Valens and Denzel Washington’s character in Training Day. Sensmeier realized he could be like his heroes on the big screen. Moreover, he could faithfully portray Indigenous people, as opposed to the fake Indigenous people and stereotypes seen in Hollywood movies (like in John Wayne films).

When Sensmeier got older, he had to make a life-changing decision: pursue basketball and see where it took him, become a fisherman and never leave Yakutat, or take a high-paying oil-drilling job on a rig with two weeks off every month. He chose the third option and the money and free time from the oil rig job allowed him to visit Los Angeles as much as possible for sightseeing and acting classes.

When he moved to LA full time, however, his money soon dried up and he had to deliver pizzas while pursuing his acting. Sensmeier had an epiphany about his life when his parents called to tell him an elder close to the family had passed. Sensmeier couldn’t afford to return and be a gravedigger—an honor he felt ashamed to miss. It was then he decided he could use his home as a symbol of happiness and security, as opposed to the common perception of home as a place one needs to leave to find oneself.

Sensmeier pursued acting with renewed ferocity and landed a role in The Magnificent Seven where he was able to make the Indigenous character an authentic portrayal. He also had the chance to work with two of his favorite actors from Training Day—Denzel Washington and Ethan Hawke. Sensmeier now appreciates Yakutat more and makes it a point to spend weeks there when he visits. He also counsels kids to embrace where they live and to not be ashamed if they never leave home.

Carmen Carrera’s essay takes the form of an encouraging letter to her 10-year-old self. Carrera used to be known as Chris, and though everyone around her identified her according to her male sex organs, Carrera never felt comfortable in her body. “You want to feel comfortable in your skin,” she says in the letter, “but you are surrounded by beautiful women who see you as their little boy. You hide your femininity even though femininity is everywhere—within you and constantly surrounding you” (261). Throughout the letter, Carrera discusses how she grew up in a household of strong Peruvian women and, upon transitioning, used this strength and love to sustain her journey and embrace her identity. She shows this all to her younger self as a way to pacify that younger self’s fear and possible self-hatred.

The letter also explains how Carrera’s mother left an abusive husband, came to the US when she was young, had Carmen with a drug addict whom she loved but who died, and raised her children on her own. Carrera informs her younger self that her mother sees her as the surviving son of the man she loved. Despite this, Carrera tells her 10-year-old self to be strong and demand love from her mother even while coming out and embracing her true self. Her mother and others might feel confused, but they need to accept this new, true self.

Carrera also tells her younger self she will encounter much success. She will become a role model for many Peruvians and transgender kids, she will become a Peruvian American model, and she will legally change her gender and name to match who she has always been (Carrera’s official name is now Gabriella Costa-Roman). She closes the letter by telling her younger self to be patient, but to also be excited because “A beautiful world is waiting for you” (267). 

Uzo Aduba pens a heartfelt essay thanking both her Nigerian background and her strong-willed mother for making her the woman and the actress she is today. Aduba always thought of her mother as regal. While growing up, she remained mesmerized by the graceful way her mother carried herself: “She always carried herself in a very different way from most American moms I knew. She never talked down to us or tried to mimic our speech the way some parents do when they converse with young children” (269). Aduba’s mother earned two master’s degrees before she had children and spoke formal English—the Queen’s English—which often annoyed Aduba as a child. Aduba wanted her mother to speak slang and not use big words all the time but her mother balked at Aduba’s embarrassment and reminded her that it was Americans who improperly spoke, not her.

Another issue Aduba’s mother helped her better understand was how to take pride in her name. Uzo is short for Uzoamaka; Aduba disliked the name as a child because Americans couldn’t correctly pronounce it. She asked her mother to call her Zoe instead, but her mother shrugged off her dislike of her first name and told Aduba, “If they can learn to say Tchaikovsky and Michelangelo and Dostoevsky, then they can learn to say Uzoamaka” (271).

Aduba always feels proud when seeing Nigerians dress up for events. She loves the colorful clothing and how elegant everyone looks, as well as hearing Igbo—her parents’ language. For her high school graduation, she wore traditional Nigerian clothes and asked that her mother serve traditional Nigerian food at her party. Aduba wanted her friends and their families to see how amazing Nigerian food and customs are and felt proud when her friends told her everything at the party looked grand.

One of the issues Aduba faced growing up is the realization that her mother is also human. Aduba posits immigrant children don’t get to see their parents as human, or as people who were once children themselves, because their parents have always been the bedrock ensuring the family’s survival. In this sense, parents are superhuman.

But when Aduba’s grandmother fell ill and died while Aduba was visiting Nigeria for the first time, this view changed. Her mother didn’t accompany the rest of the family on the trip and Aduba knew her mother felt bad because she didn’t get to say goodbye to her mother. On the trip, Aduba heard stories about her mother’s childhood. On the day of Aduba’s sister’s birthday, her mother broke down and cried. She asked Aduba’s sister Chi-Chi if they could reschedule the birthday party. Aduba saw her mother’s humanity and fragility, something she constantly witnesses now and something she uses to reimagine her mother as far more approachable, loving, and tender than some fictional, strong-willed monarch.

Linda Sarsour centers on the power of radical love. She deliberately uses the word “radical,” despite some people pointing out to her that, as a Palestinian American Muslim, the word might have a negative connotation. Sarsour, however, believes love is what can heal America and with the animosity many people currently face, a radical form of love is what’s most needed: “I do not believe that it is every man for himself, every woman for her child. Because my parents did not believe this. My neighbors did not believe this. And my community will not stand for this” (292). At the heart of Sarsour’s radical love is the concept of neighbors and community—and even strangers—existing as family.

Sarsour has always lived in a tight-knit community. She grew up in Brooklyn, in Sunset Park, and notes the neighborhood was a diverse enclave where neighbors shared food, customs, and upbringing from their respective cultures. Because of this, Sarsour firmly upholds the motto that “it takes a village” to raise children, instill love, and practice patience.

Sarsour also felt this radical type of love from her own Muslim family. She admits that, in the Arab world, families openly and loudly wish for sons. Her mother birthed five daughters before having two sons, and Sarsour’s father was ecstatic each time a daughter was born. Her father always showed her what it means to love and how valued women should be in society. This concept of learning love and the value of female equality from her father often puzzles people—especially because Sarsour is a Muslim feminist who wears a hijab. People assume she either upholds stereotypical views of women as subservient, or that she wouldn’t credit the men in her life—like her father or the doctor that delivered her, Dr. Jaber—with showing her what it means to be equal.

Like many Muslims and Arabs in the US, Sarsour’s life changed after 9/11. She watched her community face the same oppression from the US government that drove them from their respective homelands in the first place. Sarsour became an activist during this time to help the disenfranchised. She notes in the essay that even when younger, she understood the US routinely infringed on the civil rights of others, such as Black people, Indigenous Americans, and Mexican Americans. Her concept of radical love is to show others how everyone is worthy of love, and how it is possible to exist as a loving family regardless of differences.

Joaquin Castro writes about chasing after the American dream and public service. Congressman Castro is a native of San Antonio and his brother Julian not only served with Obama but was the mayor of San Antonio.

Despite their both being in public service, Castro notes they come from a precarious family tree. The only relative about whom Castro knows much is his grandmother Victoria. She came to the US as an orphan with her sister after her mother died of tuberculosis in Mexico. His grandmother “never made it past elementary school, and she spent most of her life working as a maid, babysitter, and cook” (297). Though Victoria isn’t political, Castro laments the turn America is currently taking—a turn that would effectively ban people like Victoria from entering the US.

Castro believes this turn toward immigration reform seeking only the best and brightest, that seeks to prequalify individuals before they even step foot on US soil, goes against the hard work and the American dream as lived by so many people who have made America what it is. Castro reiterates his point by saying, “Victoria deserved the same opportunities as the rest of us. She belonged in a country that allowed her to pursue her dreams” (300). Through his grandmother, Castro learned great things could come from those who plant seeds; one never knows what the seed will look like or if it will take root, but it still deserves the chance to grow.