A menacing portrait of Donald Trump at the US consulate in Sydney is the final push. I know I am making the right choice
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merica, it’s been 60 years but I’m breaking up with you. I still love you but I’m not in love with you and I’m calling it quits. I’m going willingly although I’m sad because there is a lot that’s wonderful about you.
From your magnificent national parks, soaring redwoods and unique wildlife to the magic of fireflies amid the corn fields on summer nights and the vibrant colours of autumn leaves, your natural beauty is stunning. Your capacity to inspire creativity and innovation is boundless, as reflected in the inspirational people I have met who live within your borders. So many of my fondest memories of our time together revolve around the flavours that will always remind me of you – cinnamon, pumpkin pie, grape jelly. But, America, I just don’t understand you any more.
If I were to write a break-up letter to the US, that’s how it would start. I have been what is called an “accidental American” since birth thanks to my father and 10 generations before him, beginning in 1636 and featuring revolutionary and civil war soldiers, shared DNA with a former president and generations of pioneers who crossed the country, from Massachusetts and New Jersey to Ohio, Pennsylvania, Illinois and Kansas.
