Jul 5, 2026 · 56 min · 23 segments
On this country's 250th birthday, we bring you stories about the most American people, places, objects, and social norms that make this country what it is. Visit…
Ira GlassHost
Emmanuel DzotsiHost
Emanuele BerryHost
Pablo TorreGuestRoman Mars
Jiayang FanGuest
Imani PerryGuest
The first time I heard someone ask the question outside of an ESL class, I was eight years old.
"Are you okay?" I knew so few English words that part of the reason why it registered so distinctly must have been the shock of understanding.
He had been called, as the police were often called in our first days in America, to our basement apartment.
My mother and I had recently reunited with my father after he'd left to study in America six years earlier, and it hadn't gone well.
Doors were slammed, plates shattered, limbs pinned to the ground, ultimatums delivered.
Did my mother call because she was being harassed by my father's mistress or because we were being evicted from our basement studio? I no longer remember.
I do remember that it was the first time I dared to look at an American police officer up close.
The question hung in the air as a procedural formality, as a way of wrapping up the visit.
I had been in the country for less than a year, but I knew what the next words should be.
How are you?" But that day, kneeling on the floor, face covered in her own tears and snot, my mother responded with something else.
The officer lowered himself onto the floor next to the doorjamb, then listened and nodded for an hour.
My mother followed rules tirelessly and taught me to do the same, all part of adapting as seamlessly as possible.
The first time I heard someone ask the question outside of an ESL class, I was eight years old.
"Are you okay?" I knew so few English words that part of the reason why it registered so distinctly must have been the shock of understanding.
He had been called, as the police were often called in our first days in America, to our basement apartment.
My mother and I had recently reunited with my father after he'd left to study in America six years earlier, and it hadn't gone well.
Doors were slammed, plates shattered, limbs pinned to the ground, ultimatums delivered.
Did my mother call because she was being harassed by my father's mistress or because we were being evicted from our basement studio? I no longer remember.
I do remember that it was the first time I dared to look at an American police officer up close.
The question hung in the air as a procedural formality, as a way of wrapping up the visit.
I had been in the country for less than a year, but I knew what the next words should be.
How are you?" But that day, kneeling on the floor, face covered in her own tears and snot, my mother responded with something else.
The officer lowered himself onto the floor next to the doorjamb, then listened and nodded for an hour.
My mother followed rules tirelessly and taught me to do the same, all part of adapting as seamlessly as possible.
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