My father and the American dream

My father was born and raised in England and my mother was born in Denmark and raised in New Zealand.

My father’s father was American, a Captain in the US Army, who was stationed in England during World War II where he met my grandmother. He was killed in action in that war, before my father was born. (My mother would want me to add, “as a hero”, so I will, there you go Mum!)

My mother would also want me to add this press clipping:

It makes sense then, that my father was drawn to the USA. He first visited when very young, but it was when he returned as a member of the rock group Eric Burdon and the Animals that he fell in love with it.

He remained in love with it for all his life.

Quoting him (at that time known as Vic Briggs) from an interview he did when he was with Eric Burdon and the Animals (source unknown):

“The people in the states care much more about other people and about their country . . . the young people, particularly in California, are trying to change their country for the better.”

“The amount of money you earn is in proportion to your ability, the more you work the more you earn.”

My father loved the freedom, openness, how friendly everyone was. He loved the customer service, the California weather, driving long distances, the beach, the high desert and later on, the Hawaiian Islands, how the government was not going to tell him what to do or how to live his life, the ease of starting a business at any time, the lack of bureaucracy compared to Europe, the rights inherent such as freedom of expression and religion and speech, and so much more. He exercised his right to own firearms (and once, his firearm was actually drawn in self-defense on our peaceful street in San Diego to defend the Sikh Dharma ashram in which I grew up, against someone who didn’t think people ought to be practicing a different kind of religion in 1970s USA!)

He understood the promise and potential in America, because in his childhood he had very different experiences. His formative years in post-war 1950s still-rationed England were grim and gloomy and rigid, and growing up without a father even tougher. He arrived here and never looked back, apart from when he returned to England to teach yoga and met my mother. (Obviously meant to be, or I wouldn’t be writing this.)

Fun fact—my dad at some point investigated our family history on his father’s side. Apparently, we are descended from Mark Twain! I’m hoping some of Mark Twain’s writing prolificness will hit me soon.

I knew from early on that we were fortunate to be living here, in the US, in California, in San Diego. Much international travel for as long as I can remember including multiple visits to extended family, as well as two years of boarding school in India, two months backpacking through Europe, and three months in Moscow, Russia, by the time I was 20 years old, was more than enough to understand and internalize the gift of my American life.

I don’t take a moment for granted. I doubt my father did either.

Of course, we have problems. All countries do. As Americans, we don’t always agree, but we have a right to disagree with each other. And free speech! We get to express how we feel on any platform we desire, all of them built by American companies right here. As a political science major, I learned more than I ever needed to know about regimes and ways of government and philosophies that don’t allow a fraction of what we enjoy here.

The life we live here is like nothing else.

I know it. Every immigrant I’ve ever spoken with knows it. My father knew it.

It’s not that there isn’t so much more to the world beyond these borders. I can think of a few countries I’d love to live in. I look forward to traveling again to different parts of the world, some for the first time. There are wonderful, amazing, unique peoples and cultures to be experienced. So many different ways of living to learn about and immerse in and be enthralled by.

But when I step off the plane and pass through the glorious ease that is Global Entry and step outside to the curb, I am always glad and slightly relieved to be home. I completely understand why my father moved here and never looked back. His life here was his American dream.

Five years ago on June 30 my father died in New Zealand. As the cancer was consuming him, all he talked about was coming back to the States “as soon as I get my energy back.” He wanted to be here. He wanted to be home.

He was never able to return home.

I am in awe of the vastness of our land and all its regional differences and the myriad ways of life that my fellow citizens choose to live. I can’t believe the always-changing beauty I see from airplanes and during the many road trips I’ve been on. Every state offers something unique and we have 50 of them! You can get in your car and drive and find safe rest stops and available gasoline (or charging stations) and clean, safe places to stay along the way, and national parks and state parks and historical markers and friendly people everywhere. And free and plentiful restrooms! That’s not a given in many parts of the world.

Just like my father, I deeply and unconditionally love this great but extremely imperfect and (currently) vastly divided country. I have fierce hope that we will find our way back to balance, because we are Americans and we are in this together and we just have to, because this is the United States. Because we are Americans.

This is my American dream.

Happy 250^th Birthday to the United States of America, my beloved home!

There’s nothing else like it.