Graphic by Christopher Cruz
First Lady Melania Trump was recently in a spotlight of her own choosing with the release of a new documentary, Melania: Twenty Days to History, depicting the days before her husband’s second presidential Inauguration. As a result, many of my friends wanted to hear my take on her story.
Why?
Well, I don’t know Mrs. Trump, and have never met her. But like her, I was born and raised in Slovenia, and moved to the United States as a young adult. She and I live very different lives, and it’s hard to say whether we have anything in common besides national origin.
While I wouldn’t want to assume why she decided to stay in the United States (although I might have some ideas), I know that many foreigners, myself included, are attracted to this country, first and foremost, as a place where we can grow and express ourselves in ways unimaginable in our homelands.
Mrs. Trump was in her mid-twenties when she moved to New York for her modeling career, and I was eighteen when I moved to the Midwest to attend college. After graduating, I had a short stint on the East Coast, and today, I live in Fairbanks, Alaska.
I decided to come to the United States because, like many international students, I wanted to experience a liberal arts education and a dynamic classroom experience that I could not access at home. While I enjoy indulging in criticism of America and its politics, I cannot imagine living anywhere else after all these years.
My family members in Slovenia persistently ask me why I am still here. Why would I choose to live in a place where taxpayers are forced to fuel endless wars overseas, health care is way too expensive, and food is full of corn syrup? Every time there’s a mass shooting, someone back home checks on me, even when the news comes from nowhere near Alaska. They are worried for my safety and health, and frankly, so am I.
When I moved to Indiana in 2018, diversity was still widely recognized in U.S. institutions as a good thing, especially in higher education. I’m pretty sure the only reason I received a major scholarship was that I’m from a country my admissions committee had barely heard of. Diversity, equity, and inclusion were values that institutions were putting front and center.
Today, organizations that rely on federal assistance are doing everything to self-censure and step away from language that could prevent them from accessing competitive funds.
Certainly, one of the things that attracted me to the United States was a desire to learn how to think, speak, and write critically, something many of my peers at home, after the collapse of the communist system, still aren’t experiencing. A friend who studies at a Slovenian university once shared that her professors use a strict top-down approach with very little encouragement of participation and opportunities for discussion.
The U.S. system has given me a space to develop my intellectual skills inside and outside the classroom. As an art history major in college, discussing topics like political and activist art gave me the space to holistically approach the historical background of the studied objects through a lens crafted by me, not my professor.
Recently, one of my friends—I'll call him Ryan—asked me to take my hat off at a hockey game as he placed his hand on his heart during the performance of the national anthem. It’s moments like that when I’m fully aware that I am an outsider.
I brought this up with Ryan a few weeks later. I said I was a bit surprised when he asked me to remove my beanie, even though that’s a common custom. If someone reminded me to do that in Slovenia, I’d probably think they might not see eye-to-eye with me on most political issues. I’d think they’re proud of their country “a little too much.”
Ryan laughed and shared that he genuinely believes in the ideals laid out in the lyrics of the anthem. He’s a patriot, despite his disagreements with the current administration. In that moment, I felt a sense of hope. After listening to negative news day after day, witnessing sincere belief in unity, freedom, and collective resilience was refreshing.
My contemplation of American patriotism in the weeks after that hockey game reaffirmed my commitment to the country that’s given me more than I could imagine as an eighteen-year-old, landing in the Midwest. Despite living through politically turbulent times, largely shaped by U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement activities, I remain optimistic about the American project. I have spent enough time here to learn that most Americans are good. Just like most Somalis, Mexicans, and Slovenes are good. I came here not because I was drawn to U.S. politics, but to live in a place where I can express myself freely and live wholly.
I love the message of the Star Spangled Banner, but sometimes wish I could blend it with the Slovenian anthem, “Zdravljica” (pronounced zdrahv-LYEE-tsah). “A Toast,” which is the translation of the title (yes, our anthem is technically a drinking song), speaks to the importance of spreading peace across borders, including the idea that “no war, no strife shall hold its sway.”
I have never spent more time thinking about the power of that message than in recent months, perhaps naïvely hopeful that I am not the only Slovenian in this country who has.