My journey to becoming an unhyphenated American

The knock on the door sounded official.It was the United States Census. "Do you live here? What is your name?" As soon as I said it, a gleam came to his eye. "Are you a Russian- or Ukrainian-American?" he asked... [snip]

It wasn't always like this.

When we moved from Venezuela in 1956, the United States government was concerned that I become an American without ethnicity attached. The immigration agent at LaGuardia Airport wanted to change my name to Walter. In school, Spanish and Ukrainian were not accepted languages. I needed to learn English quickly. [snip]

As I became more and more American, more and more Americans insisted I really was an ethnic American. So much so, that by 1968 I was not sure who I really was or to which country I belonged.

... at the University of California, Berkeley. It was ground zero for the native anti-American movement. It was unbelievable to see American college students carrying the red flags of communism. To my parents, the hammer and sickle symbolized death and famine.... [snip]

My family was in America because our farm in the Ukraine was confiscated, my grandmother shot, and my father made homeless and an orphan before his teens. The Ukraine was part of my family's history, but not filled with pleasant memories. America, on the other hand, gave us not only one opportunity, but second and third chances.

I realized I owed America everything.

My mother once said, "There are only two things wrong with Americans. One, they are incredibly naïve about the world and two, they do not realize how lucky they are"

I was not born American — English is my third language — but I take pride in the ideals, values, and achievements of this country.

I cheapen the value of America by insisting on hyphenating my nationality.

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