The first time I learned I was American was my first trip abroad to America’s colonial ancestor, England, where I circled a plexiglass-protected 15th century Benin mask at the British Museum. An older white Englishman engaged me in a conversation and when he called me American, it made my ears ring. For the remainder of my trip I observed, Londoners knew immediately by my walk, my posture, my voice (I didn’t talk loudly for fear that I’d get lumped the obnoxious Americans) that I was American. I can’t tell you how shocking that experience was. Even in America I never thought of myself as American. Immediately, I found myself searching for an exceptions, to footnote my American-ness. ...