Empire will assimilate you whether you want to or not.
The thought struck me as I was refreshed on the Battle of the Little Bighorn at the Smithsonian’s Museum of the American Indian last month. The Lakota, Northern Cheyenne and Arapho came to a resounding victory against the United States Army to prevent the US from expanding into territory where gold had been found. A year later, the land they fought to keep was officially annexed by the United States. Fifteen years later, the winners of the battle were lauded by Americans as symbols of the tenacity and ferociousness of the good ol’ US of A. The thing they had fought to stay separate from, and won against had engulfed them.
My ancestors came to the midwest from the Netherlands. I’m not sure why, or how many generations back; family history has been more a passing curiosity than anything I’ve ever taken an interest in. Specifically, they came from Friesland, and that was important to them. When my aunt brought her then-boyfriend to meet her grandma, my great-grandmother sat them down for dinner and said, “so Maxfield, what are ya?” My now-uncle was unsure how to answer until my aunt jumped in—“He’s not even Dutch, Grandma.”
Over generations, the family connection to the Netherlands has dwindled. At some point, we stopped being Fries and Dutch and became white Americans, but the traces still exist. We make banket at Christmastime, and my grandma put chocolate letters in our stockings growing up, but these are more family traditions at this point. It wasn’t until asking for clarification that I learned they were Dutch traditions. The melting pot of America has mostly homogenized us into something new.
The myth of American Exceptionalism provides a new heritage to supplement and supplant the old. America is the best nation, it goes, first among equals, a nation sanctioned by God which could only exist in this place and time. The stories settle like spores deep down in the lungs of those who grow up in the nation; with grand monuments throughout to help citizens remember them. Capitol Hill is packed with museums and monuments and memorials. The Washington Monument towers over everything in the Capitol Hill area, a compass needle to orient tourists as they move between the monuments, memorials, and museums which tell the history.
“Legend has it that Jefferson is looking right at the west wing of the White House to prevent any tyranny from happening there,” a tour guide tells a school group as I descend the steps of the Jefferson Monument, and I wonder what Jefferson would have thought about January 6th. I wonder how a man who by all accounts hated tyranny treated his slaves. A nearby plaque on a construction fence promises a renovated monument opening 2026 that will “contain varying perspectives” on the man, and I hope it answers some of my questions.
That’s not to say there aren’t good or cool things the US has done. My cynical, balancing nature mostly focuses on the bad when things are presented as good. Seeing the space shuttle Discovery was incredible. I can’t not be awestruck witnessing what is essentially a metal can the size of three school buses, which ferried people into an environment entirely hostile to life and brought them back safely thirty-nine times. Yet, less than 250 feet away rests the Enola Gay, which dropped an atomic bomb on the city of Hiroshima. Most of the museum is filled with aircraft from different wars, and at least two plaques inform visitors that Lockeed Martin has donated generously to the museum. Plaques by each plane list the years they were operated, company that designed them, and particularly operations or battles where they were flown. Nowhere is listed the number of people who were killed because of these war machines.
Yet for all I wish the stories of destruction and assimilation focused more on the victims, I cannot deny that I am an American, with the cultural values that entails. I love a good burger. I’ll measure using anything but the metric system. I love a long road trip across wide distances, through midwest farm fields and Appalachian mountains and valleys. I’m just not sure I love the nation, or at least how it presents itself.

Apart from a fantastic collage (I am not immune to the propaganda; it’s true), I resonate with so much of this. My sister was filling out some information and was like “What are we? Dutch?” At what point am I to identify myself as just American, and if I do that, how much of all that this country has done, continues to do am I claiming?
I am very interested by your experience of having loose ties to family heritage; I come from a family of immigrants and have strong ties to where we come from, and being American feels different to my immigrant family members than it does to me (having been born here), as it does to my friends whose families have been here for generations. Thank you for verbalizing these thoughts on being American, this is very valuable and relatable. I hope you’ll write more on this sometime / somewhere.