What does being an American mean to me? I find myself tackling this question, miles from my homeland. Across the Atlantic, in fact, where sympathetic eyes and consoling words greet an identity unfolded.

“I’m from New Jersey,” I reply in the smoky pubs of Dublin, Ireland, where the landscape calls for rounds of pints and songful dance. It’s a question quite commonly asked in an atmosphere of kinship.

“Where are you from?” The question is intended to start up the play-by-play of getting to know someone. But the “I’m sorry,” with only best intentions, that is quick to follow since September 11 only draws me further away from the speaking party. I suppose it is a reaction I’m not used to.

But it’s, more importantly, one that I don’t want to get used to. One I feel I shouldn’t have to.

I’ve never felt so distant from my country. I’ve never felt so connected. Among the many international and Irish students who swarm the campus of the University College of Dublin, there exists a small community of American students bonded by the tragic events of September 11.

We were in a registration line when the news broke.

It couldn’t be true. We begged to reject it.

But as soon as the horrific images presented themselves in the media, we reacted. Dodging to the phone booths, requesting country codes through unbroken sobs, we called home, some of us not yet equipped with calling cards – only to meet the horror of busy lines and experience the uneasiness of unanswered questions.

I would find out much later – upon line connection and unimaginable tones of interaction – that many of these Americans would find their loved ones unaccounted for.

There were those directly affected. Those with whom you could offer nothing more than your company, hoping that your somewhat familiar presence would ease the foreignness of their surroundings, their situation and their forever altered perception of ‘home’.

I found it particularly difficult to deal with the realization that the young man living in the apartment next to mine, who lost his uncle in the

World Trade Center attacks wouldn’t be flying home to attend the funeral service. His parents thought it best for him to not make the trip. Even today, in passing, I note the pain marked in his eyes and reflect upon the many who are grieving for the lost, back in the states and around the world.

What does being an American mean to me?

In the past few weeks it has meant taking refuge in the small campus chapel and trying to come to terms with the fact that I will no longer be able to gaze across the Hudson and find the Twin Towers standing so proud, symbolic as that may be.

It has meant that I thank God every day. In my own family, though there was a close call, all are safe and well.

It has meant that I pray every day for the suffering. I pray for our country.

It has meant that I am having a hard time responding to the apologies, let alone the peace rallies that crowd the city center with anti-Bush campaigns.

It has meant that I have taken personal sentimentality to the flowers that surround the American Embassy, and the “day of mourning” that was issued for the first time ever by the country of Ireland.

But – more powerfully – it has meant that no matter how far from home I may be right now, the courage and unity of the American people has been made known.

To me, to the others, to the world.

And in this time of uncertainty and grief we wear our national badges of identity.

We stand proud.

We stand inspired: by our country, and further, by our people.