Does America Still Exist? Richard Rodriguez For the children of immigrant parents the knowledge comes easier.American exists everywhere in the city-on billboards,frankly in the smell of French Fries and popcorn.It exists in the pace:traffic lights,the assertions of neon,the mysterious bong-bong-bong through the atriums of department stores.America exists as the voice of the crowd,a menacing sound-the high nasal accent of American English. 2 When I was a boy in Sacramento(California,the fifties),people would ask me,"Where are you from?"I was born in this country,but I knew the question meant to decipher my darkness,my looks. 3 My mother once instructed me to say,"I am an American of American descent."By the time I was nine or ten,I wanted to say,but dared not reply,"I am an American." 4 Immigrants come to America and,against hostility or mere loneliness,they recreate a homeland in the parlor,tacking up postcards or calendars of some impossible blue-lake or sea or sky. Children of immigrant parents are supposed to perch on a hyphen between two countries.Relatives assume the achievement as much as anyone.Relatives are,in any case,surprised when the child begins losing old ways.One day at the family picnic the boy wanders away from their spiced food and faceless stories to watch other boys play baseball in the distance. 5 There is sorrow in the American memory,guilty sorrow for having left something behind- Portugal,China,Norway.The American story is the story of immigrant children and of their children -children no longer able to speak to grandparents.The memory of exile becomes inarticulate as it passes from generation to generation,along with wedding rings and pocket watches-like some mute stone in a wad ofold lace.Europe.Asia.Eden. 6 But,it needs to be said,if this is a country where one stops being Vietnamese or Italian,this is a country where one begins to be an American.America exists as a culture and a grin,a faith and a shrug.It is clasped in a handshake,called by a first name. 7 As much as the country is joined in a common culture,however,Americans are reluctant to celebrate the process of assimilation.We pledge allegiance to diversity.America was born Protestant and bred Puritan,and the notion of community we share is derived from a seventeenth-century faith. Presidents and the pages of ninth-grade civics readers yet proclaim the orthodoxy:We are gathered together-but as individuals,with separate pasts,distinct destinies.Our society is as paradoxical as a Puritan congregation.We stand together,alone. Americans have traditionally defined themselves by what they refused to include.As often, however,Americans have struggled,turned in good conscience at last to assert the great Protestant virtue of tolerance.Despite outbreaks of nativist frenzy,America has remained an immigrant country, open and true to itself. 9 Against pious emblems of rural America-soda fountain,Elks hall,Protestant church,and now shopping mall-stands the cold-hearted city,crowded with races and ambitions,curious laughter, much that is odd.Nevertheless,it is the city that has most truly represented America.In the city,Does America Still Exist？ Richard Rodriguez 1 For the children of immigrant parents the knowledge comes easier. American exists everywhere in the city—on billboards, frankly in the smell of French Fries and popcorn. It exists in the pace: traffic lights, the assertions of neon, the mysterious bong-bong-bong through the atriums of department stores. America exists as the voice of the crowd, a menacing sound—the high nasal accent of American English. 2 When I was a boy in Sacramento (California, the fifties), people would ask me, “Where are you from?” I was born in this country, but I knew the question meant to decipher my darkness, my looks. 3 My mother once instructed me to say, “I am an American of American descent.” By the time I was nine or ten, I wanted to say, but dared not reply, “I am an American.” 4 Immigrants come to America and, against hostility or mere loneliness, they recreate a homeland in the parlor, tacking up postcards or calendars of some impossible blue—lake or sea or sky. Children of immigrant parents are supposed to perch on a hyphen between two countries. Relatives assume the achievement as much as anyone. Relatives are, in any case, surprised when the child begins losing old ways. One day at the family picnic the boy wanders away from their spiced food and faceless stories to watch other boys play baseball in the distance. 5 There is sorrow in the American memory, guilty sorrow for having left something behind— Portugal, China, Norway. The American story is the story of immigrant children and of their children —children no longer able to speak to grandparents. The memory of exile becomes inarticulate as it passes from generation to generation, along with wedding rings and pocket watches—like some mute stone in a wad of old lace. Europe. Asia. Eden. 6 But, it needs to be said, if this is a country where one stops being Vietnamese or Italian, this is a country where one begins to be an American. America exists as a culture and a grin, a faith and a shrug. It is clasped in a handshake, called by a first name. 7 As much as the country is joined in a common culture, however, Americans are reluctant to celebrate the process of assimilation. We pledge allegiance to diversity. America was born Protestant and bred Puritan, and the notion of community we share is derived from a seventeenth-century faith. Presidents and the pages of ninth-grade civics readers yet proclaim the orthodoxy: We are gathered together—but as individuals, with separate pasts, distinct destinies. Our society is as paradoxical as a Puritan congregation. We stand together, alone. 8 Americans have traditionally defined themselves by what they refused to include. As often, however, Americans have struggled, turned in good conscience at last to assert the great Protestant virtue of tolerance. Despite outbreaks of nativist frenzy, America has remained an immigrant country, open and true to itself. 9 Against pious emblems of rural America—soda fountain, Elks hall, Protestant church, and now shopping mall—stands the cold-hearted city, crowded with races and ambitions, curious laughter, much that is odd. Nevertheless, it is the city that has most truly represented America. In the city