There’s something about the Great American Highway. About the hills of Wisconsin, the hills that Illinois land lacks. I love this land, because it teaches me something every time I see it.

My family and I sat in a crowded ’98 SUV. It was one of the few times that we acted just like we would have ten years ago in the same situation. We bickered and smiled, yelled and laughed. We slept and we stared out the window. We listened to music, and we had conversations.

And at those moments, I knew we were just like every other American family. Maybe the songs playing on our speakers weren’t in English, but that doesn’t make any difference.

I’ve spent my whole life getting used to the idea that I’m not white, not American. That I’m different, because I’m from somewhere. Somewhere other than here.

But I learned this weekend, truly learned, that I am just as American as everyone else. I think the same way, I read the same books, watch the same television shows. And that maybe just as much as America has changed me, I have changed America. My family has changed America. What it means when we say someone is “American.”

And our SUV from 1998 made tracks on a highway this weekend. Tracks have been driven on before us. Tracks that will be driven on after us.

From our old country, we have brought with us our language, our culture, and our faith. We have brought our knowledge, our ambition, and our ethic. Just like everyone before us. Just like everyone who is still coming, just like everyone who will continue to come.