The plane landed at Washington-Dulles, and I gazed wide-eyed at the mobile lounge that came alongside to transport us to the terminal. Louis Botha Airport in my home city of Durban on the coast of South Africa had nothing so exotic. Why should it, with fewer than five flights a day? Passengers had to slosh through rain while gusts of tropical wind off the Indian Ocean swirled around the aircraft stairs.

Instead, I heard a whirr as hydraulic lifts turned the elevated lounge into a bus. The worn, dirty string around my enormous package of X-rays and legal documents, the golden key that would grant me entry into the U.S.A., gave evidence of having been clutched for 10,000 miles.

A uniformed Immigration Officer took my package of papers and disappeared. I waited anxiously, stifling the strangling fear there would be some last-minute glitch and I would be denied access into the country.

My mind drifted over the sequence of events that brought me to this point. Earlier in the year, my parents announced they planned to retire in the U.S.A., and my only sibling decided to return to her college town in Tennessee. After a break of three years in Canada, I had adjusted to life back in South Africa, enjoying the good and ignoring the bad. I loved my periodic visits to exciting America, but was always glad to return “home.”

As a result of my family’s decisions, I now faced two unappealing options: the upheaval of another change of country and culture, or being separated by a vast ocean from the people closest to me. I chose the former, threw myself into preparations for the big move, and ignored my dragging emotional feet.

As I waited in the Immigration office, questions tumbled around in my mind like clothes in a dryer. How would I adjust to this new country? Would I be accepted socially? Would I have difficulty finding work? I was starting from scratch. All I owned fit into two suitcases. Two boxes of beloved books followed by ship.
My thoughts were interrupted by instructions to proceed to another room for a picture. A few minutes later the officer returned, smiling and holding out his hand.

“Welcome to the United States,” he said.

He then turned over my “green card,” granting me the right to live and work in the U.S. My new life had begun.

Those first few years were a mix of misery and wonder. It takes enthusiasm, energy, and determination to build a new life in a strange country, and I lacked all three components. My move was a result of my parents’ decision rather than my own internal motivation, and my emotional feet still dragged.

I had to embark on one of my least favorite activities—job hunting. My first temp assignment confirmed my opinion of the awfulness of my circumstances. The Southern dialect was beyond comprehension and my own distinctly different accent didn’t help communication efforts. One day I dutifully wrote out a phone message from a Mr. Baile of XYZ Company. The recipient stared at the message. After much discussion, we laughingly determined the name was “Bell”—with a Southern pronunciation.

Socially I felt a misfit. My clothes were different, my expressions unique, my manner reserved. Atlanta had not yet evolved into a cosmopolitan city, and I stuck out like an onion in a petunia patch. My privileged “green card” kept me anchored from moving to Canada where the culture was closer to my own.

On the other hand, I found many aspects of life in the U.S.A. appealing. The supermarkets were a far cry from the corner grocery store in Durban, with one type of milk and only brown or white bread. My love of food soared to extraordinary heights as I surveyed my options.

I joined the ranks of true Americans when I got my first credit card. It was just a gas card, but it gave me a minuscule sense of belonging. Consumerism was the one aspect of American life I adapted to easily.

Our schools followed the British system, providing a thorough but brief education by American standards. Nevertheless, my work ethic and personal abilities soon opened doors professionally. My two suitcases expanded into overstuffed closets in my own condominium. A lifelong dream of owning a sports car became a reality, and I added a blur of brilliant red to Atlanta’s freeways. My airline travel benefits meant I could indulge my passion for overseas vacations. At first, I felt as though I belonged somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic, no longer a South African and not yet an American. Then a subtle shift took place. I found myself adapting to the American lifestyle and had no desire to relinquish it.

In 1977, I stood before a judge in an Atlanta court house. Along with immigrants from 43 countries, I raised my hand and solemnly swore allegiance to the United States. While I did not take this step lightly, convenience motivated me. A South African by birth, I traveled on a British passport, and lived as a resident alien in the United States. Becoming a citizen would eliminate confusion.

The years flew by. I realized with amazement I was approaching the thirtieth anniversary of my immigration. Sadly, a part of me remained remote, detached from the throb of American life. The Fourth of July represented just another day off work—nothing more. Those thirty years encompassed confusing episodes and events: the wind-up of the Vietnam War, Watergate, the Pentagon Papers.

Then came the events of September 11, 2001. Riveted to the television, I felt unfamiliar emotions course through me, stirrings of patriotism. Outrage at this assault on America. Sorrow over the innocent lives lost or irrevocably changed. Pride for the selfless commitment of the rescuers. The magnanimous outpouring of support from millions of Americans and friends around the world surprised me. I rummaged in a drawer for the small U.S. flag I received when I became a citizen and proudly hung this on my mailbox, the first on my block to do so.

On September 30, the renowned Atlanta Symphony Orchestra and Chorus gave a benefit concert for the American Red Cross. Symphony Hall overflowed, with many people standing in the aisles. At the signal from the conductor, the first notes of the rousing “Star Spangled Banner” filled the auditorium. Hundreds of voices joined the chorus while a mass of small flags created a swirl of red, white, and blue. To my amazement, I discovered tears rolling down my cheeks, my emotions responding to the patriotic surge around me. I felt honored to be a participant in this display of support for my President, my country, my people.

Another year flew by and the anniversary of September 11th arrived. I again turned on my television to watch the memorial events. As I stood quietly during the moments of silence and commemoration, my mind flashed back to that dreadful day. I felt deep sympathy for those who had lost loved ones, and admiration for the many who had valiantly fought physical battles as they coped with burns and other injuries. I empathized with the individuals and family members who struggled daily with unseen emotional trauma.

A voice intoned the roll call of people who had perished at Ground Zero, like the solemn tolling of a bell. At first I was merely fascinated by the sound and variety of names: Aamoth, Adams, Alvarez, Ang, Bailey, Bhukhan, Boisseau, Belilovsky . . . Suddenly, I realized that every name represented a diversity of ethnic, national, and cultural backgrounds. Each surname carried with it the dreams of immigrants from every corner of the world, individuals and families, spread over centuries and generations. Dreams of a life of freedom from government or religious oppression. Dreams of achieving individual goals. Dreams of living in security and safety, free from rampant crime and corruption. This is what America represents. This is what unites her people.

Being an American does not lie in consumerism, or opportunity, or even the privilege of citizenship. It lies in understanding and honoring the ideal of individual worth regardless of nationality, gender, or ethnicity. It is enjoying the freedom to participate in government of the people, for the people, by the people. It is recognizing the millions of individual threads that are woven together to make the tapestry that symbolizes America. It is accepting the dark threads of weaknesses, failures, and shameful traits along with the glittering threads of strength, the will to triumph over adversity, and national and individual resolve.

Now I understand. Now I am truly an American.