I was 7 when I became aware of my cultural identity.
My family had been living in Russia for a year as missionaries, and that summer my parents bought a red bicycle for my brothers and me. We were thrilled, but so was a gang of Russian teens who roamed our apartment complex. Soon, the bike went missing.
We found the group huddled in an alley with our bike. Since I was the oldest, my brothers sent me to get it back.
I mustered up all the courage a 7 year old could and marched to meet the thieves.
In an instant, 20 pairs of eyes stared at me. My heart sank. Their leader glared at me and asked, “What do you want?”
I pointed to the bike and managed to say, “You need to give that back to me.”
With a smug look, he demanded why.
I struggled to find a suitable answer. Then I had it. With a renewed sense of confidence, I puffed out my chest and proudly declared, “Because I am an American.”
Their arrogant looks melted as the reality of that statement sunk in. I guess they thought a distress signal was sent to the White House if any American was ever threatened and U.S. GIs would come and kick their borscht-loving behinds. Deflated, they walked the bike to me and ran off.
As an adult, I am still in awe of how much of an effect my U.S. citizenship had on those boys that day. I wonder if they still have the same fear of Americans and if they ever retell that story as the day that defined their cultural identity.
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