Because of the way I talk and the color of my skin, I have never been burdened by a negative connotation to the word immigrant. However, in recent months my president has allocated a tone to this word that demeans and derides the tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free.
While my English accent has had some of the edges knocked off during the past four decades, there is enough of it there to define me as a “Brit” in the nation where I have chosen to belong. In fact, my accent sometimes gives me privilege. It has been thought positively exotic in some of the small towns my husband and I have passed through on our long roadtrips, and I am certain some people think I am much more intelligent than I really am — just because of the way I speak.
But I am an immigrant. On the day in 1993 when my husband and I became American citizens inside the federal building in Los Angeles, we were relieved to have arrived at the final administrative step. No longer would we need green cards when returning home from our travels abroad.