I’ve spent the better part of the last two years joking that I picked a pretty good four years to leave the United States.
It’s a fairly easy joke to make as an American studying abroad—my go-to quip whenever conversations turn political. Between the persistent headlines and questions from European friends about the state of American democracy, I’ve found myself wishing I could personally thank the Atlantic Ocean for separating me from the chaos back home.
But somewhere along the way, the words started to feel wrong. Rehearsed and a little hollow. Because as much as I’ve appreciated the distance, leaving America has actually made me love it more.
An Identity Crisis Across the Atlantic
St Andrews, the remarkably international place it is, has given me friendships that stretch across continents and, with them, the opportunity to share the cultures, politics, and nuances of our respective homes.
I’ve met people who speak about their countries with an air of effortless affection that, frankly, made me a little jealous. They defend their traditions, celebrate their long histories, and seem to possess an innate sense of cultural identity. I found myself wondering what authentic Americana I could contribute to this cultural exchange. Cheeseburgers? College football?
Perhaps that’s why so many Americans here hold on so tightly to whatever international ties they have. A semester abroad in high school. An EU passport courtesy of a grandmother born in Italy. The second language learned at a bilingual elementary school.
Some St Andrews students’ Instagram bios read more like an Ancestry.com overview than a social media profile.
But I don’t fault Americans who embrace their international heritage. I understand the appeal.
There is a uniquely St Andrews pressure to present the most worldly version of ourselves. After all, part of what draws so many of us to this university is the opportunity to engage with people from everywhere, whether in the classroom or on a weekend trip. It makes sense that cultural diversity and international experience have become something of a social currency.
But that mentality has its drawbacks. What begins as an appreciation for cultural diversity can occasionally slip into a kind of cosmopolitan elitism, where the more international your identity, the more interesting you seem.
Despite the overwhelming number of Americans at this university, it can sometimes feel embarrassing to be one. The stereotype of the loud, ignorant American is difficult to escape, and in an environment that places such a premium on worldliness, being American can feel like something to explain rather than celebrate.
Yet I think my discomfort with my nationality runs deeper than a fear of fitting a stereotype.
Reclaiming the American Flag
For much of my life, patriotism has felt like a complicated word.
Growing up in an increasingly polarized political environment, I struggled to reconcile loving my country with feeling disappointed, or even enraged, by its politics. Criticism came more easily than pride.
It is an unfortunate reality that putting an American flag in my Instagram bio might be interpreted as a political statement in a way that displaying another country’s flag often isn’t. Somewhere along the way, patriotism became associated in my mind with a particular brand of loud, combative nationalism: a screeching bald eagle, a screaming bald white man.
Neither felt particularly representative of me.
Yet the quieter expressions of national pride I encountered among my international friends made me reconsider what patriotism could look like. Their affection for home wasn’t necessarily an endorsement of its government or a declaration of superiority. It was simply an appreciation for the places, people, and traditions that had shaped them.
And I began to wonder why I had made loving my own country so conditional.
Two truths can exist at once. A flawed place can still be adored by its inhabitants, just as a flawed person can still be loved by their family and friends. My anger and criticism can come from a deep love for my country and a desire for it to live up to its potential. I can celebrate its achievements while acknowledging how much work remains to be done.
I can love living in Scotland and still miss Southern California.
Perhaps patriotism doesn’t have to mean believing your country is the greatest in the world. Perhaps it can simply mean believing it’s worth caring about.
There’s No Place Like Home
There’s a viral TikTok sound that claims, “The South of France is nice, but it’s just not the SEC.”
And while comparing the French Riviera to the Southeastern Conference of college football is certainly a stretch, I’ve come to appreciate the sentiment. There is something special about the peculiar traditions and familiar rituals of home, even if they don’t always translate across borders.
When I started reflecting on my time at university, I realized that some of my favorite memories are actually the ones that connect me to America.
Staying out far too late at the pub to watch the Super Bowl, explaining the cultural significance of Kendrick Lamar’s halftime show to the British couple sitting beside us. Attending a Friendsgiving hosted by our Her Campus president, Lily, where the table was filled with recipes passed down through her Midwestern family.
These moments aren’t grand declarations of national pride. They’re small, familiar pieces of home, made all the more meaningful by being thousands of miles away.
And perhaps that’s what I’ve been missing all along. Not a political ideology or some romanticized vision of America, but the comfort of belonging to a place and a collection of stories that are distinctly my own.
Country Roads, Take Me Home
Now, when visiting golfers stumble out of the Dunny and begin their inevitable rendition of “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” I don’t roll my eyes quite as quickly. Sometimes I even sing along.
It was my grandfather’s favorite song.
He was a modest man who, to me, represented so much of what America ought to be.
He was the first in his family to leave their farm in upstate Washington and attend college. He moved to the nation’s capital, where he met a girl working at the Natural History Museum. They married, built a home with a white picket fence, and raised a family.
He sang in his church choir every Sunday and stood on the side of the road holding a blue campaign sign every election season. He earned a PhD, yet spent his retirement substitute teaching at a local elementary school because he believed deeply in the importance of education.
He worked hard, valued his community, and believed in the possibility of building a better life, not just for himself, but for the generations that would follow.
And he lived long enough to see his granddaughter leave her family’s home in Southern California to attend university on the other side of the world, an opportunity made possible, in part, by the life he had built.
I think about the distance between his family’s farm in Washington and my university in Scotland. About how much of that distance was made possible by the generations before me. About the quiet, ordinary American lives that rarely make international headlines but have shaped the country just as profoundly as those that do.
When I think about America now, I think about him.
I think about a country where the promise of opportunity has never been equally fulfilled, but where generations of people, including my grandfather, have worked to make that promise more real for those who come after them.
His is an American story. And it’s one I should be proud to tell.
For so long, I thought being a thoughtful American meant being able to articulate everything wrong with my country. I still believe criticism is necessary, perhaps now more than ever. But I’ve come to understand that caring enough to demand better is itself a form of patriotism.
I don’t have to defend everything America does to defend what it means to me. Nor do I have to distance myself from home to prove that I understand the world beyond it.
If anything, living among people who love their countries so openly has reminded me that I can love mine, too.
I came to Scotland hoping to see more of the world. I didn’t expect that doing so would help me see home more clearly.