To be an American

Leading with love

By Yasmin Nassar ’26

My professor once said that we should vote with the intention of showing love to one another.

That has forever shaped how I see my role in this country.

When my parents first started talking to me about voting, I could not understand why it meant so much to them. Throughout high school and college, as they engaged me in thoughtful and meaningful conversations about local and national issues, I began to truly understand their experience and why they cared so much.

As I first asked myself the question, “What does it mean to be an American,” I felt uncertain. As a first-generation Syrian American, I know being an American looks different to me than it does to my other American friends, my immigrant friends and certainly my Syrian parents, who moved to post-9/11 America. My parents chose to move to the United States to give my brother and me a better life. I couldn’t be more grateful for the sacrifices they have made for us; however, this is the exact kind of experience that makes our answers incredibly different.

My experiences as the daughter of immigrants have taught me to value empathy, participation and compassion. To me, being American means using my voice, engaging and caring deeply about the people around me, whether they are my neighbors, strangers in my city or people across the world. Sometimes it can feel like your voice doesn’t matter among louder, more powerful and often hateful voices, but that mentality is what made our country reach this point of misunderstanding and divisiveness.

Our community needs connection, and our communities rely on love to survive difficult times. I see myself as the innermost layer of a nesting doll of communities. Each community grows greater until we can see the whole world as the outermost layer, which is why it is important for me to cast a vote in local politics as well as national elections, because my vote matters at each level.

I now feel confident in what it means for me to be an American, because my way of being American means leading with love. Being an American is inextricably linked to understanding your community members and the impact you can have on their experience. As isolating as it can feel to be a small fish in the huge sea that is this country plagued with divisiveness, when you learn to vote for, understand and love your neighbor, that sea starts to feel a little smaller.

Yasmin Nassar graduated from UD in May 2026 with a bachelor’s degree in international studies and political science. She was vice president of UDayton Votes, a nonpartisan student organization working to increase civic engagement on campus with voter registration drives, educational opportunities and resources for the student community.

Nation before self

By Michael Ariori

I decided to study computer engineering at UD in part because of the love I had for my job in the Air Force. At Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota, I was on a team responsible for keeping the electricity on 24/7 and for the workings of all associated systems — cooling, pumping, airflow — for the ballistic missile silos and the personnel manning them.

I was good at my job … not so much at taking a compliment. But I had a commander who made sure we understood the bigger picture. He knew the first and last names of the thousand people under him. He’d show up at 1 a.m. to be sure we had everything we needed for our shift. He’d direct attention to our sacrifices — such as working in minus-20-degree weather — so that people can live peacefully. He’d remind us that our fellow airmen and service members are to be thanked for putting the lives of those in our nation before their own.

Today, as a veteran with more than 11 years of active-duty service, that perspective has helped me in my new role. I’m an officer in UD’s Student Veterans Association, committed to supporting veterans through the transition to civilian life and the challenges of going back to school. Through events and personal interactions, the student leaders help create the warm, welcoming environment championed by the staff of UD’s Military and Veteran Programs and Services office.

To be an American veteran also means that I am open to sharing stories of my military experiences more widely, to help inform the citizenry of the sacrifices made by brothers and sisters in arms and their families, who live with constant change and uncertainty. I now see the U.S. military as one of the most diverse organizations in the world, one where everyone’s talents and training come together for a larger purpose that can drive our nation’s innovation.

This July Fourth, as we celebrate American independence, I’ll be gathering with my “new Ohio family,” former servicemembers with whom I’ve forged a decade-long friendship who also decided to settle locally. Together, we’ll cook out, share stories and find a place to watch the fireworks go whistling up into the sky, with a shared understanding of where we’ve been and the support of one another as we move toward what’s next.

Michael Ariori recently completed his second semester at UD.

The fight over identity and belonging

By Art Jipson and Paul Becker

What does it mean to be an American, and who gets to decide? The answer has never been fixed. It has always been contested, shaped by political struggle, cultural change and competing visions of belonging.

At its core, being American has often been framed through civic ideals: democracy, pluralism and constitutional rights. Yet this inclusive vision has always coexisted with exclusionary notions rooted in interpretations of race, religion and culture.

What makes this moment different is how openly those exclusionary notions now operate and how far beyond the fringe they reach. Our recent research and writings trace how these forces are actively reshaping who counts as American.

While religious freedom is a foundational American principle, white nationalist groups promote a narrowly defined Americanness tied to whiteness, Christianity and a mythologized past. Movements aligned with Christian nationalism promote the idea that the United States was founded as a distinctly Protestant Christian nation and should be governed as such.

Language invoking “heritage,” “tradition” or “taking the country back” serves as a coded appeal, resonating well beyond explicitly extremist circles. Dissent is labeled “un-American,” as with the recent No Kings protests or efforts to cast anti-fascism as a leftist terrorist threat.

Political disagreements are recast in moral or theological terms that exclude other faiths, making compromise difficult and portraying those outside the dominant tradition as less authentically American.

These battles are no longer determined solely by formal institutions — courts, legislatures and schools — but increasingly by informal cultural forces operating through media, political rhetoric, social media, online influencers and grassroots activism.

Domestic extremist groups frame political opponents not merely as adversaries but as existential threats to the nation. Such framing erodes trust in democratic institutions and legitimizes anti-democratic actions, from voter suppression to political violence.

This is no abstract debate; it carries real consequences for inclusion, equality and the health of democracy itself.

If American identity is to remain grounded in democratic ideals, it must resist efforts to narrow its boundaries. Sustaining that ideal requires continual engagement, critical reflection and the courage to confront forces that seek to define belonging in exclusionary terms.

Art Jipson and Paul Becker are associate professors of sociology.

Citizen, but not human

By Danielle Julita Quichocho

This story is in English, but it shouldn’t be.

It should be in CHamoru, one of the rippling, curling languages indigenous to the Northern Marianas archipelago. It’s named for the CHamoru people who, millennia ago, made this crown of islands blooming in Pasifika their home. However, thanks to decades of criminalization on Guåhan (an island in that archipelago), I can’t speak CHamoru or use it here. In fact, I’ve found that, on occasions when someone’s heard about Guåhan, they only know the colonizer name “Guam.”

In place of cultural knowledge, I — a descendant of Guåhan — instead have a tempestuous relationship with a particular English phrase: U.S. American. There are several institutional eddies causing this tension to swell, crest and crash.

The first eddy: the U.S. military. It’s frequently an honor to say my father served 20 years in the Army. I spent childhood aboard an endless vessel of adventure, so proud of my mother’s adaptability, my father’s leadership, my own bravery alongside equally venturesome siblings. These memories often epitomize being a U.S. American. At the same time, military operations continue swallowing up Guåhan in a ceaseless, manufactured typhoon. They block my family and other locals from our beaches, jungles, heritage and medicine, often painting a target on the island instead of protecting it.

What does it mean to be a U.S. American citizen when enduring this military machine? CHamorus are American enough to fight U.S. wars (one in every eight CHamorus is a U.S. veteran), but not American enough to elect the very person who can start those wars. The flag’s red stripes remind me there is no shortage of blood to spill for this country, especially in Pasifika.

The second and third eddies: the U.S. Supreme Court and Congress, the highest authorities that write and arbitrate on matters of justice and equality. More than 100 years after its own fight for freedom, this country decided islands like Guåhan were inhabited by “alien races.” It ruled that my not-so-distant ancestors weren’t humans. The people of Puerto Rico, Cuba, Guåhan and others were too brown for freedom, justice or equality. Even today, after nearly another century of fighting for rights like citizenship — and consistently, CHamoru sovereignty — every effort is made to drown indigenous voices.

CHamorus are American enough to pay federal taxes now, but not American enough to have a congressional representative vote on those taxes. The flag’s white stars remind me of America’s briny, bristling racism that denied generations of my family the same rights granted to the 50 states.

I don’t know enough of my language to tell my story. But I do know that, despite all this, the flag’s pool of navy blue reminds me of i tåsi (the ocean). Just like how i tåsi nurses peaceful lagoons and commands deadly riptides, being a CHamoru American means many contradictory things simultaneously. Afloat in this identity, hope, inafa’maolek and inagofli’e (values of mutuality and care) keep me steady.

Danielle Julita Quichocho is an assistant professor of communication. She helps convene the group Home for Asian American and Pacific Islanders at UD, which creates community among those who identify as and support AAPI faculty and staff.

It depends

By Abby Gowen ’26

When I was asked the question of what it means to be an American — and who gets to decide — the typical law school answer came to me first: it depends. In the legal field, “it depends” is the answer to most questions when you don’t have all the facts. You learn that early on in law school, and it sticks throughout your three years.

As a student interested in pursuing a career in immigration law, I’ve seen firsthand what it means to become an American from a procedural standpoint. I’ve worked at law firms that specialize in immigration law and participated in the University of Dayton School of Law’s Immigration Clinic. I’ve assisted on cases for individuals seeking to obtain citizenship and helped put on naturalization ceremonies at the University of Dayton.

During one ceremony, I watched as the soon-to-be citizens piled into the school’s courtroom and recited their Naturalization Oath of Allegiance — the final step in becoming naturalized citizens. Proud applicants, many dressed in suits, dresses and ties, were accompanied by family and friends. Each person stated the name of their home country — a diversity of backgrounds represented, all standing together to formally accept their new status as U.S. citizens with pride. Their milestone is something I won’t forget in my law school journey.

I want to be an immigration attorney to help my future clients achieve their dreams and aspirations. The United States has long been seen as a place where you can be anything, achieve anything and start a new life. Whether someone comes here to study, to work, for safety, or to be with loved ones, they are taking a chance. A chance on themselves. A chance that everything will work out the way they hope — or need — it to. A chance that what they have dreamed of and worked toward will come to fruition. I know that I want a career where I can help people navigate some of the most important and life-changing moments they will ever experience. Immigration law gives me the opportunity to do exactly that.

So, when asked what it means to be an American and who gets to decide, I come back to the same answer: I think it depends. From a legal perspective, it may depend on why you want to be an American, how the government handles your case and your past life experience. In other words, there are many variables that can go into becoming an American — some of which may be out of your control.

What a person can control is their desire to become something new, to live as an American. I know that I will be standing beside people, meeting them in times of uncertainty and excitement, and helping them seek statuses that will take them to another step toward their dreams — the most American thing a person can do.

Abby Gowen earned her Juris Doctor in May 2026 from the University of Dayton School of Law.

A version of this article appears in print in the Summer 2026 University of Dayton Magazine, Pages 23 and 24. EXPLORE THE ISSUE — MORE ONLINE