What loves me
I call American.
What hates me
I call out as not that.
What I love
becomes American.
What I hate
stumbled over the border.
~~~~~~~
Who is that new American
in the window looking in?
Shall I hate or love him?
Shall he remain my countryman?
~~~~~~~
I am the American
in the window, shopping
for belonging.
I fear it is out of stock.
~~~~~~~
To hell with that word,
“American.”
New, confusing word.
I came here
before they made that word
for here. It matters not
what I’m called,
and I don’t hate you for insisting
that I should care,
for all that I’m sure you’re wrong.
Before I was American,
I was mountain.
I was early light on the mountain.
I was dawn in my own house
illuminating my own walls.
American
describes a wall I can’t light.
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Dark Matter 
August 7th, 2010 at 2:20 am
not sure the bigger synchronicity: our talk of jingoism fueling blind racist violent thoughts that we had right before i read this, or the ad about a book called “Lucy” saying “she talks like us, she looks like us, but she’s jot us, or is she?” ending with the catchphrase “discover what it means to be human”
August 7th, 2010 at 2:59 am
I think they both apply.