"Actually, each country is not exceptional in its own way and doesn’t deserve a little trophy just for being there."
Martin, I have read your book and several of your excellent essays since. But this short one, which I just finished on a flight home, had me laughing involuntarily (at the line quoted above), fighting back tears of agreement, and inspired to try and do something great with the rest of my days.
A lifelong admirer of the spirit I have witnessed in nearly all the immigrants I have met, nothing has ever come so close as this essay to making this lucky native born American feel like he has experienced a tiny bit of the extra good fortune of being a naturalized American as well.
A wise observer once said that the world is full of Americans, it just takes some of them longer to get here. You just said it better.
Excellent. This reminds me of an essay I read that was refuting some pomo screed arguing against the literary canon as an element of white supremacy. Tolstoy is *everyone’s* heritage.
The plurality of America is what makes the country and its people so great. I'm tired of pretending that this country is the worst. We dont need to make America great again because it has been and will remain a great nation. Yes, there are problems but there is also so much promise. Bless America 🇺🇸
Wow! Just wow! It is people like Martin Gurri that sustain what little hope I have that we can save our exceptional democratic republic. It’s propositions were inked by men who combined genius with a deep and broad knowledge of history, understood the fallibility of men, had boundless optimism yet remained grounded in reality, were humble, and acknowledged the need for divine help. The founders knew this experiment could only work if the citizens were a moral people. Exceptional? Yeah, I’d say America is exceptional.
My sisters and I were born and raised in Mexico, but fortunate to have US citizenship from our mother. We love Mexico but truly and fundamentally agree with Mr Gurri in America’s amazing exceptionalism. For anyone curious or questioning this, I would encourage you to travel. Not as a tourist, but try to start a business anywhere else, open a bank account or request a loan, return an item of clothing, organize a group of volunteers to clean a park, get an internship. Consider getting arrested for what you think is a minor crime. Then tell me how cruel and oppressive the US is. I heart America. We have lots of opportunities to continue to improve (like all of us), but it’s hands-down the best spot for the largest number of people on the planet today.
I received an email once when I was traveling in Africa from a Ghanaian friend who was scheduled to be sworn in as a citizen during a time when I absolutely could not be there to cheer for him and his cohort. As soon as I returned to the office, he was my first visitor and he had another request: could I help him register to vote? "I am an American now, and voting is my right, my privilege, and my duty." So off we went to the election registrar.
Not long after, a quite feisty English friend was sworn in and I asked her who won the Revolutionary War. Who kicked some British butt? Who ran off the Redcoats? Her crooked grin reply was, "We did!"
Often, the new ones understand it better than those of us whose ancestors were here at the Founding.
Yesterday, like every Fourth of July, I took my sons to Mt. Vernon, the home and final resting place of the father of our beloved country. We are graced to live in a house on land that was once was a farm in Gen. Washington's estate, and is now about 1.5 miles from the main grounds and mansion.
The main house at Mt. Vernon is beautiful, if simple. The grounds have been painstakingly restored to appear as they had at the time of our nation's birth. The outbuildings, barns, bunk houses, blacksmiths forge, etc. are all rebuilt and in some form of use. The gardens brim with the very plants and trees he cultivated so carefully; sheep, goats, pigs, and enormous, horned bulls meander about in pens (at Christmas, camels make an appearance). On other days in the Summer, in the great field in front of the house, period actors reenact revolutionary battles, set up camp, march with fife and drum, and fire cannon which blow enormous smoke rings across the field of mock battle, as mounted cavalry gallop along the rope line and men in full period gear fire musket and slash the air with fist and sabre. All performed in the heat and humidity in 100 percent wool uniforms.
One of the best annual events at Mt. Vernon is the colonial market which has rows of stalls selling tools, furniture, arts and crafts, jewelry, leather goods, carved wood, ceramics and other products made just as they were in the late 18th Century by early American hands. You can listen to period music, stories read aloud for children, or presentations by the attending merchants and craftsmen. The atmosphere, the smells and sounds, its all fascinating and comforting because its your history, even if your ancestors came to American a century after independence, this is your inheritance.
But before you walk down to the crypt where Gen. Washington's rests, to stand before him and say aloud, "thank you", to linger at his tomb and reflect on the miracle of the American life surrounding you, you walk to the back of the house to sit in one of the dozens of chairs along the back porch, perched on a hill high above the Potomac, looking out over a grande expanse of more than 180 degrees of river, sky, forest and cloud -- the view protected from development so it remains wild, dense, shimmering green and blue in the Virginia sunshine. Even when busy with crowds of visitors trouping through, it remains quiet here. Nobody counsels it - no signs reminding or docents shushing. It just is. Quiet, peaceful, majestic. Regardless of the time of year, the weather, crowd, event, etc. it remains in character. Except on the Fourth of July.
Each year, every year on America's birthday, a naturalization ceremony is held at Mt. Vernon. A few dozen people are sworn-in as new Americans, on the Fourth of July, at the home of the father of our nation. Each year, every year, I take my sons there to witness it, because it is one of the most incredible, inspirational, emotionally moving things one will ever see. I take my sons because, born into the current fog of confusion and static, where bilious narratives woven from half-truths (or whole cloth), grievance, false pieties, and everyday blasphemies against a great people vie for primacy in defining our history and determining our future, where malcontents and hucksters peddle all sorts and varieties of self-righteous inanities, conning the well-meaning but intellectually bereft into believing that their culture and traditions are but a mirage concocted to disguise the rot dwelling at America's core, there is nothing that cuts through that bullshit like seeing the joy of a crop of freshly-minted Americans celebrating their welcome into our fold.
It begins when you first arrive. Africans, Asians, Central and South Americans (and a few vaguely European-looking folk) carrying identical folders, dressed to the nines, broad smiles plastered on their faces as they stream through the entrance gates. Many are in business-formal western attire,
but the Africans, many of them look like they just stepped out of a fairly tale. Resplendent in magnificent formal African gowns and suits, the cloth interwoven with shimmering threads of what appear to be gold and silver, the colors standing tall in the morning sun. They, along with everyone else, carry themselves with such pride, such joy, such a sense of accomplishment that you can do little but stare in awe.
Standing on the perimeter of the ceremony, it becomes increasingly hard to catch your breath - the lump in your throat grows as you witness a great human transformation taking place. Some local pol. makes a speech (some good, some flat), but you're not listening, you're watching their faces, trying to discreetly wipe away your own tears, looking away, embarrassed when one of them catches your eye. My sons expect it now, but were alarmed when they first saw me, tears streaming down my face, vainly trying to stifle and swallow my sobs. What's wrong dad? Why are you so sad? When I was finally able to speak, I awkwardly tried to explain tears of joy. I was so happy for these people, I felt so close to them, it was unlike any human drama I'd ever experienced.
The only thing that came remotely close was at the Indianapolis 500 in the late 1990s, when Danica Patric became the first woman to ever lead a full lap of the race. Down the front straight in traffic, she dipped inside in turn 1 and by turn 2 was in the lead. Her car screaming like a banshee at 200 miles an hour, a half million people on the edge of their seats, but not a word being spoken - the crowd, the booth, all quiet. 500,000 people, hearts racing, silently willing her forward: go Danica, GO. Regardless of who you came to root for, at that moment, they were forgotten. Everyone felt the same thing. The shock wave from her car punched you in the chest as she rounded turn 2 and exited onto the back straight, and then they announced it. History. 500,000 people erupted in unison, leaping to their feet and roaring, hands raised to the sky in celebration. We were all in love with Danica, we were all proud of her, we were all in the cockpit with her. Go Danica, GO.
Back at Mt. Vernon, shit gets serious when they stand and take the oath of allegiance. And we are there with them, in the cockpit, willing them forward. GO. The oath itself is a bit clunky and staid, until the end, with the words "so help me God", and a few words of congratulation, and that's it: they are now officially Americans, they are one of us. If you love this country, and I know you do, the spectacle of this transition stirs something so deeply in the soul that it's impossible to maintain your composure. They want to be Americans, and you want them to be Americans. The sacrifice, the risk, the toil, the uncertainty -- all endured to reach this point. Standing by in awe, you love them for it.
Many mill about on the grounds after the ceremony, and you want so badly to hug them. But all you can muster is to approach them, offer your hand and croak out two words: Congratulations. Welcome. Sometimes, when they look back at you and see your relative emotional state, they pull you into their arms. And not in a casual, friendly hug, but a firm meaningful embrace full of sincere joy, relief, and hope. I love the Fourth of July for many reasons -- it's on equal footing with Thanksgiving in my book, but discovering this little corner of our celebration of Independence has been an experience that enriches my life and my sustains my love of this great nation and it's amazing, beautiful, miraculous people each year, every year.
Happy Fourth of July my Fellow Americans. I love you.
I've read every essay published here since I first subscribed several months ago. All have been well written and thought provoking but this one rose above the rest, no small feat. Makes me appreciate my forefathers more than ever.
This was the most beautiful piece I have read here. I was naturalised when I was 12, and have lived in different parts of our world. Never have I so resonated with the thoughts and experiences of another immigrant. We need to reinvigourate our country with the gratitude of recognising our true privilege of being Americans.
"Actually, each country is not exceptional in its own way and doesn’t deserve a little trophy just for being there."
Martin, I have read your book and several of your excellent essays since. But this short one, which I just finished on a flight home, had me laughing involuntarily (at the line quoted above), fighting back tears of agreement, and inspired to try and do something great with the rest of my days.
A lifelong admirer of the spirit I have witnessed in nearly all the immigrants I have met, nothing has ever come so close as this essay to making this lucky native born American feel like he has experienced a tiny bit of the extra good fortune of being a naturalized American as well.
A wise observer once said that the world is full of Americans, it just takes some of them longer to get here. You just said it better.
Thank you.
Excellent. This reminds me of an essay I read that was refuting some pomo screed arguing against the literary canon as an element of white supremacy. Tolstoy is *everyone’s* heritage.
Thank you so much for this essay. Absolutely beautiful!
The plurality of America is what makes the country and its people so great. I'm tired of pretending that this country is the worst. We dont need to make America great again because it has been and will remain a great nation. Yes, there are problems but there is also so much promise. Bless America 🇺🇸
Absolutely powerful. Thank you.
Wow! Just wow! It is people like Martin Gurri that sustain what little hope I have that we can save our exceptional democratic republic. It’s propositions were inked by men who combined genius with a deep and broad knowledge of history, understood the fallibility of men, had boundless optimism yet remained grounded in reality, were humble, and acknowledged the need for divine help. The founders knew this experiment could only work if the citizens were a moral people. Exceptional? Yeah, I’d say America is exceptional.
Perfection in print. Thank you.
My sisters and I were born and raised in Mexico, but fortunate to have US citizenship from our mother. We love Mexico but truly and fundamentally agree with Mr Gurri in America’s amazing exceptionalism. For anyone curious or questioning this, I would encourage you to travel. Not as a tourist, but try to start a business anywhere else, open a bank account or request a loan, return an item of clothing, organize a group of volunteers to clean a park, get an internship. Consider getting arrested for what you think is a minor crime. Then tell me how cruel and oppressive the US is. I heart America. We have lots of opportunities to continue to improve (like all of us), but it’s hands-down the best spot for the largest number of people on the planet today.
Would Martin Gurri weigh in on immigrants like CUNY law school grad Mohammed from YEMEN
The black irony of “progressive” immigrants trashing America and its law enforcement deserves attention
Not all immigrants see it as does Gurri
CUNY law grad doubles down on commencement speech… https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-12224517/CUNY-law-grad-doubles-commencement-speech-called-attacks-facist-police.html
CUNY Law Dean applauds 'hate speech' against Isra… https://nypost.com/2023/05/30/cuny-slam-students-hate-speech-against-israel-nypd-military/
Oven...very low temp, at least overnight.
I received an email once when I was traveling in Africa from a Ghanaian friend who was scheduled to be sworn in as a citizen during a time when I absolutely could not be there to cheer for him and his cohort. As soon as I returned to the office, he was my first visitor and he had another request: could I help him register to vote? "I am an American now, and voting is my right, my privilege, and my duty." So off we went to the election registrar.
Not long after, a quite feisty English friend was sworn in and I asked her who won the Revolutionary War. Who kicked some British butt? Who ran off the Redcoats? Her crooked grin reply was, "We did!"
Often, the new ones understand it better than those of us whose ancestors were here at the Founding.
Yesterday, like every Fourth of July, I took my sons to Mt. Vernon, the home and final resting place of the father of our beloved country. We are graced to live in a house on land that was once was a farm in Gen. Washington's estate, and is now about 1.5 miles from the main grounds and mansion.
The main house at Mt. Vernon is beautiful, if simple. The grounds have been painstakingly restored to appear as they had at the time of our nation's birth. The outbuildings, barns, bunk houses, blacksmiths forge, etc. are all rebuilt and in some form of use. The gardens brim with the very plants and trees he cultivated so carefully; sheep, goats, pigs, and enormous, horned bulls meander about in pens (at Christmas, camels make an appearance). On other days in the Summer, in the great field in front of the house, period actors reenact revolutionary battles, set up camp, march with fife and drum, and fire cannon which blow enormous smoke rings across the field of mock battle, as mounted cavalry gallop along the rope line and men in full period gear fire musket and slash the air with fist and sabre. All performed in the heat and humidity in 100 percent wool uniforms.
One of the best annual events at Mt. Vernon is the colonial market which has rows of stalls selling tools, furniture, arts and crafts, jewelry, leather goods, carved wood, ceramics and other products made just as they were in the late 18th Century by early American hands. You can listen to period music, stories read aloud for children, or presentations by the attending merchants and craftsmen. The atmosphere, the smells and sounds, its all fascinating and comforting because its your history, even if your ancestors came to American a century after independence, this is your inheritance.
But before you walk down to the crypt where Gen. Washington's rests, to stand before him and say aloud, "thank you", to linger at his tomb and reflect on the miracle of the American life surrounding you, you walk to the back of the house to sit in one of the dozens of chairs along the back porch, perched on a hill high above the Potomac, looking out over a grande expanse of more than 180 degrees of river, sky, forest and cloud -- the view protected from development so it remains wild, dense, shimmering green and blue in the Virginia sunshine. Even when busy with crowds of visitors trouping through, it remains quiet here. Nobody counsels it - no signs reminding or docents shushing. It just is. Quiet, peaceful, majestic. Regardless of the time of year, the weather, crowd, event, etc. it remains in character. Except on the Fourth of July.
Each year, every year on America's birthday, a naturalization ceremony is held at Mt. Vernon. A few dozen people are sworn-in as new Americans, on the Fourth of July, at the home of the father of our nation. Each year, every year, I take my sons there to witness it, because it is one of the most incredible, inspirational, emotionally moving things one will ever see. I take my sons because, born into the current fog of confusion and static, where bilious narratives woven from half-truths (or whole cloth), grievance, false pieties, and everyday blasphemies against a great people vie for primacy in defining our history and determining our future, where malcontents and hucksters peddle all sorts and varieties of self-righteous inanities, conning the well-meaning but intellectually bereft into believing that their culture and traditions are but a mirage concocted to disguise the rot dwelling at America's core, there is nothing that cuts through that bullshit like seeing the joy of a crop of freshly-minted Americans celebrating their welcome into our fold.
It begins when you first arrive. Africans, Asians, Central and South Americans (and a few vaguely European-looking folk) carrying identical folders, dressed to the nines, broad smiles plastered on their faces as they stream through the entrance gates. Many are in business-formal western attire,
but the Africans, many of them look like they just stepped out of a fairly tale. Resplendent in magnificent formal African gowns and suits, the cloth interwoven with shimmering threads of what appear to be gold and silver, the colors standing tall in the morning sun. They, along with everyone else, carry themselves with such pride, such joy, such a sense of accomplishment that you can do little but stare in awe.
Standing on the perimeter of the ceremony, it becomes increasingly hard to catch your breath - the lump in your throat grows as you witness a great human transformation taking place. Some local pol. makes a speech (some good, some flat), but you're not listening, you're watching their faces, trying to discreetly wipe away your own tears, looking away, embarrassed when one of them catches your eye. My sons expect it now, but were alarmed when they first saw me, tears streaming down my face, vainly trying to stifle and swallow my sobs. What's wrong dad? Why are you so sad? When I was finally able to speak, I awkwardly tried to explain tears of joy. I was so happy for these people, I felt so close to them, it was unlike any human drama I'd ever experienced.
The only thing that came remotely close was at the Indianapolis 500 in the late 1990s, when Danica Patric became the first woman to ever lead a full lap of the race. Down the front straight in traffic, she dipped inside in turn 1 and by turn 2 was in the lead. Her car screaming like a banshee at 200 miles an hour, a half million people on the edge of their seats, but not a word being spoken - the crowd, the booth, all quiet. 500,000 people, hearts racing, silently willing her forward: go Danica, GO. Regardless of who you came to root for, at that moment, they were forgotten. Everyone felt the same thing. The shock wave from her car punched you in the chest as she rounded turn 2 and exited onto the back straight, and then they announced it. History. 500,000 people erupted in unison, leaping to their feet and roaring, hands raised to the sky in celebration. We were all in love with Danica, we were all proud of her, we were all in the cockpit with her. Go Danica, GO.
Back at Mt. Vernon, shit gets serious when they stand and take the oath of allegiance. And we are there with them, in the cockpit, willing them forward. GO. The oath itself is a bit clunky and staid, until the end, with the words "so help me God", and a few words of congratulation, and that's it: they are now officially Americans, they are one of us. If you love this country, and I know you do, the spectacle of this transition stirs something so deeply in the soul that it's impossible to maintain your composure. They want to be Americans, and you want them to be Americans. The sacrifice, the risk, the toil, the uncertainty -- all endured to reach this point. Standing by in awe, you love them for it.
Many mill about on the grounds after the ceremony, and you want so badly to hug them. But all you can muster is to approach them, offer your hand and croak out two words: Congratulations. Welcome. Sometimes, when they look back at you and see your relative emotional state, they pull you into their arms. And not in a casual, friendly hug, but a firm meaningful embrace full of sincere joy, relief, and hope. I love the Fourth of July for many reasons -- it's on equal footing with Thanksgiving in my book, but discovering this little corner of our celebration of Independence has been an experience that enriches my life and my sustains my love of this great nation and it's amazing, beautiful, miraculous people each year, every year.
Happy Fourth of July my Fellow Americans. I love you.
I've read every essay published here since I first subscribed several months ago. All have been well written and thought provoking but this one rose above the rest, no small feat. Makes me appreciate my forefathers more than ever.
This was the most beautiful piece I have read here. I was naturalised when I was 12, and have lived in different parts of our world. Never have I so resonated with the thoughts and experiences of another immigrant. We need to reinvigourate our country with the gratitude of recognising our true privilege of being Americans.
Well, that was certainly worth the read.
Right on!