My Asian, African, Arab, and American friends often tell me, “You are half-way American now because you have a big belly and because you got it from McDonald’s”. In 2013, I became a US citizen and in November of last year—in the ultimate expression of citizenship—I voted for the first time.

But am I really an American? Sadly, not enough, in the eyes of many Americans here.

Starting again

As long as I have a heavy accent and eat extra spicy food, I am seen as a foreigner, not a mainstream American. But how do we define what’s American amidst all of our different colours, cultures, and diverse backgrounds? Our family arrived in the US under the Federal Refugee Resettlement Program after we lived almost two decades in a refugee camp in Nepal, a life without hope, without a future. Our entire ethnic minority population was unable to return to our homes, schools, and jobs, due to our Bhutanese king’s repressive ‘One Nation One People’ policy—a policy that produced both our legendarily high Gross National Happiness quotient, the one US Senator John McCain and Oregon’s Governor John Kitzhaber went to see some years ago, and the politics that led to the ethnic cleansing of 100,000 Lhotsampas. To date, over 80,000 Bhutanese Lhotsampas have been resettled in the US.

Call me unlucky. The year 2008 was an unfortunate one to move to the US— it was in the middle of the Great Recession. If I took a job then, I would be blamed for taking opportunities away from jobless Americans, and if I did not, I would be blamed for benefiting from the welfare system.

So once more, as I did in the squalid refugee camp, I re-booted, re-learned, and overcame the hurdles required for a new beginning. It was fascinating to experience America from an outsider’s perspective. America is a land of opportunities, and as someone motivatedby a refugee’s optimism and a traditional Bhutanese work ethic, I did my best to catch up with my American-born peers. I slept less, investing those hours instead into better and earlier integration; I showed my worth and asked for space, tried new things, learned about other cultures, partnered and added diversity to our great state.

Soon, I started living among America’s multiple cultures and languages. Back home, I used a different word for a rooster, but quickly learned that it had a derogatory meaning here. In America, every immigrant or refugee has been embarrassed while learning basic new terms during his or her transition.

Still, I am one of the survivors. A strong accent has often singled me out during conversations. I once joked with an American that I was born in the US, but was taken overseas at six months, thereby the accent. Now, interestingly, I get paid for my accent as a case manager for newly arrived refugees.

The American voter

I have made it through these challenges, my new American self is a mixture of both accents, of both worlds. It is about forgetting what I used to do and remembering what Americans do, then combining the good practices from both the countries together, and creating a third way—a mutual integration model.

Till date, I have not donated a single penny to either of the major political parties here because I do not feel like I belong to any of them. I have, however, subscribed to their emails and liked their Facebook feeds, which helps me understand their competing perspectives before choosing either the right or left-leaning parties on issues like immigration, race, foreign policy, health care, or the economy. Until now, I am either a super-conservative Democrat or a liberal Republican, though I am registered as an independent.

Despite my indecision, I believe voting brings one closer to being an American. Not everyone will be so lucky. Some newcomers, who become US citizens, do not register to vote. A fear of government and weak English skills are partially the reasons behind this. Poor voter education is the other reason. A lack of understanding of the measures and the candidates’ issues at the local, state, and federal levels bars many immigrants from being part of decision-making, which in the long run, affects immigrants considering elected leadership.

Becoming American

I am hoping to run for office someday. I will start local. I am conscious of the limitations. In America, election campaigns cost billions of dollars, which is out of the question for new Americans like me. There are few connections and resources available to non-white, non-US born candidates who are not convinced by the arguments of either of the two ruling political parties. And more importantly, race and trust issues are big barriers to the political world for immigrants in new America.

Still, I have hope. As an advocate for refugee and immigrant rights, I have met with officials at the White House, in Congress, and in the federal bureaucracy, looking for new investment in refugee and immigrants’ lives. These investments pay off. We have thousands of success stories to share from among three million refugees who came to the US since 1975.

The US government says refugees and legal immigrants can become citizens—full Americans—within five years of their arrival, but you have to be in the US to know what ‘becoming American’ really means. As I tried to decide how to fill out my ballot, I realised America and being American is all about immigration. Most of us came here for better lives and opportunities over decades and centuries and have adjusted to this new country with resiliency and courage.

And though I still have a heavy accent, am not fully involved in the democratic process, and still like my food hot and spicy, I suppose that means I am transitioning from a US citizen to a full American.

Subedi advocates for immigrant and refugee rights in the US