It's raining and the thick sky reminds of days I walked around under an umbrella in Korea. The rain was falling hard. Nobody was screaming because everyone else had their umbrellas. And the rain fell hard enough to drown out the cars. It felt like floating through white space.
Those walks had taken place in a part of Busan with tall trees that hung over the sidewalk and bushes on the ground level. Today, I'm at my parents' house. There are few trees by me. The largest ones are in distance feel more like a piece of art than something I'm a part of. When my mom and I take walks around the neighborhood it feels very American. There are many flags and many boats and many dogs.
When I think to myself what being American is, here I imagine it being this. Having a safe and consistent career that provides enough free time to tend to hobbies such as boating and grilling.
My mom and I walk nearly everyday in the same loops around the neighborhood. And now when I see America, it doesn't anger me like it used to. I feel like I understand. And I feel like I understand, because I understand it is not who I am.