I don’t know when exactly I became Americanized. I don’t know when exactly I adopted America’s culture into my soul.
Maybe it’s the one day I had a really bad day and craved for nothing more than a good ol’ grilled sandwich and a bowl of warm soup to comfort me.
Maybe it’s the first autumn I craved for pumpkin ale and pumpkin spiced lattes.
Maybe it’s the first Christmas I decided to purchase a set of decorative lights for my porch.
Maybe it’s the first time I thought that mulled wine cider would be a fantastic addition to my Thanksgiving spread.
Maybe it’s the one morning I decided I will not care anymore about the gossip mongers I have the misfortune of calling neighbors.
Maybe it’s the one night I realize that nowadays, nothing makes me happier than ending the day watching my favorite (American) tv series, glass of Norton in hand.
… I feel bittersweet. I don’t want to loose who I am, where I’m from. My country is and will always be engraved in my soul. My culture will always be the one defining me. But America, in its sneaky ways, has found the little crans and nooks inside me to store itself in.
I’ve become Americanized, I realized it.
But deep inside me, I am, and will always be,