I'm American, right?

A post I wrote on a Open Source thread about Ha Jin's new novel.

Even the most stalwart patriotic American will be quick to talk up their heritage at a dinner party. Even big bad Bill O’Reilly brags about his Irish roots at every turn.

Yes, a Chinese immigrant knows only a Chinese experience and the same goes for a Brazilian immigrant; their culture is ingrained – and that’s beautiful, and vital.

American culture is bland. But maybe it needs to be. It functions well as a mediator in our hodgepodge of tastes. It provides the grease, the fast food (and we all need to eat food fast sometimes) until we have time to eat the delectable cuisine of our choosing.

America is an idea. The American experience is about joining hands – strange hands - with that idea in mind.

To mine the ultimate American metaphor, baseball: On the World Champion Boston Red Sox, Dice K was a vital player. He is a Japanese immigrant (lacking even the English language) who joined hands (and exchanged bows) with Dominican Immigrants and Southern transplants, and they thrived.

Watching scenes from the locker room celebration after they accomplished their common goal, one never saw such merriment. There was no limiting dialogue to be had, only laughing, and hugging, and crying, and wide limitless smiles - smiles born from an American experience.