how to travel while hating your passport

a guide for unwilling citizens carrying amerikkka overseas

before i begin here are some notes:

note: hi, bitches (friends? i don’t know. i’m feeling provocative, but want to stay friendly and approachable. i promise i mean ‘bitch’ as a term of endearment) i am BACK FROM A CRUISE WITH MY PARENTS AND SPOUSE! it was wild in many ways, and i have a lot of thoughts about it. so many that i’m not writing in proper grammar and syntax (idc, tumblr-era aesthetics and e.e. cummings subversion 5eva) plz forgive me and enjoy

xoxo gossip girl

oh wait, are you in nyc?

I AM BURYING THE LEDE HERE BUT IF YOU ARE IN NEW YORK CITY PLZ COME SUPPORT UR LOCAL HOT LITERARY TGNC WRITERS N FRIENDS FUNDRAISE FOR A COMRADE’S TOP SURGERY!!!

thank you to the wonderful mia arias tsang & g.m.palmer for having me as a reader. if you’re free september 4, 2025 from 7-9 pm at hive mind books in bushwick, bk—please join us!

supchrista

A post shared by @supchrista

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i am an enemy of the state.

Photo by Nicole Geri on Unsplash

the passport burns in my tote—royal blue with a giant golden bald eagle embossed its cover. an American citizenship i never asked for. every time i pull it out, it screams my identity before i speak: here comes another stupid American! i cringe as other fellow Americans, decked out in patterns much too loud for our northern Europe destinations, shuffle into makeshift holding areas like cattle.

when an attendant finally announces it is our time to board, a ruddy-cheeked redneck attempts to grab my shoulder to hold me back, demanding to know, “where are you going in such a hurry?” his lax-southern accent sharpens with acid, his entitlement dripping with every word. “excuse me, miss— we were here first!”

i do not want to answer.

i want to catch up to my parents.

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my parents are Filipino immigrants who once thought America meant safety and opportunity. they inch ahead with my uncle, my father’s designated caregiver for this vacation—ten days through iceland, norway, the netherlands, belgium and the UK. my mother’s face crinkles with joy as she gossips with them, hopeful for delicious meals and chisme with the staff in her native language. in their old age, my parents now move with a slowness and ease that America does not allow. i don’t know to keep up with them—not because they’re fast—but because their slowness baffles me.

it was something i never learned, even from them.

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my spouse, t, and i joined them on this cruise so our families could finally meet. t’s family speaks limited English, and my parents are fluent, but retain their strong Filipino accents after over 50 years of American citizenship. we’re both scared shitless.

abroad, i am too American—loud, brash, obnoxious. at home, i am too Filipino, too foreign and brown. on and off the ship, i am nothing but a temporary visitor, a passport in passing.

perhaps that is the real joke of being an American citizen: a person doesn’t have to feel like one to carry the shame. between American exceptionalism (a farce,) our entitlement and proclivity towards violence in order to gather resources and wealth. America is an ouroboros of greed and white supremacy: eating itself whole while trying to devour others. I am sick with disgust, and it does not matter. I am still a citizen.

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in Amsterdam, i become the trio’s handler. t and i spend a lot of time here, so we’re familiar with the city’s idiosyncrasies and quirks. it was built for bicycles, for walking, for public transport (from trams to the subway) and bodies in motion. not for my father’s slow gait, or his need for private cars everywhere. we flag down cabs, shuffle into vans, and negotiate fares with drivers who roll their eyes at the request to drive us 3 km away even though it’d be faster to walk. the stress ramps up in my body—i want to walk and move in the way this city demands—but i’m also grateful for my dad’s ability to walk in the first place.

to be honest, i feel guilty.

partially because i no longer live in hawaii, close to them. choosing to live oceans apart over proximity. and partly because i only see my father’s changes in snapshots: sturdier shoes and an imperfect gait, using a walker and cane, his tendency to sit more often than he stands. my mother’s memory is foggy at best, and troublesome at its worst. i play intermediary between my father’s necessity for slowness, and my mother’s impulsivity and desire for consumerism. t notes how buzzed i’ve become, like a bouncing ball of anxiety trying to run away from the situation, but unable to (considering the circumstances.)

but after the day is over, i can feel nothing but relief. i am not repeating their patterns or swallowing rage in the way my mother used to, nor am i raising children in the same silences my husband and i grew up with. in the end, it turned out okay. the hypothetical arguments i conjured never came, and the traffic and cost of endless cabs were the most stressful part of the event. my spouse beamed, relieved that our families could chat across accents and discern the other’s rhythms.

i didn’t see it that way. the language barrier and cultural differences kept the familial interactions at surface-level. no one could get too deep and no one could re-open any of the wounds that both my spouse and i have endured at the hands of our upbringings or recent relationships. distance provided safety. maybe survival looks like slow walking through unfamiliar streets or letting language soften what cannot be said. our parents bonded, my spouse left hopeful, and i—ashamed american, third-culture kid, and reluctant citizen—stood somewhere in the middle. grateful for once, the silence between us was enough.

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still, while that cultural meeting went well—i felt unsettled. no matter how carefully i could translate or buffer my citizenship, the eagle-embossed passport marks my complicity in the state’s egregious harm against people like me. traveling as an enemy of the state does not mean i reject the food or cities or laughter of my aging parents. it means that i am actively fighting against what the blue cover represents: stolen land, labor, lives. i move through each port knowing my privilege of entry was rooted in violence.

in 2024, the U.S sent Israel around $18,000,000,000 in military aid. americans’ tax dollars helped fuel genocide in gaza, lighting the bombs that destroyed families and futures. naming this means i am an enemy of the state. i was born and raised in America, so i still feel some loyalty to her, but god—this government and some of the citizens make it so fucking hard. America makes it impossible to love her. this administration embraces greed and violence over justice and humanity.

yes, this cruise turned out okay. i wasn’t stopped at an airport by CBP like famous streamer and commentator, hasan piker, was. and there were beautiful moments amongst our travels: our families bonding, parents sharing a meal, and watching ships in the harbor together. i was anchored in softness and stability.

but everywhere, the state traveled with me, nestled deep in my tote. my citizenship stamped and etched in gold. America calls me Her citizen. the bombs in Gaza call me Her accomplice.

i can keep boarding ships, opening my passport and smiling for customs.

i know the truth: i am now an enemy of the state, stamped and approved.

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fun updates about my life: “the humble brag”

thank you for reading this word slop and continuing to support my writing.

first & foremost: if you’re new here, i’m a full-time writer/self-employed person and part-time grad student at the moment. this gives me a lot of flexibility in my life to do cool things like travel. since owning up to my new profession (writing is fun) and surrendering to the universe’s way of telling me that i need to do this.

so, this is where i get to humble brag (because why tf not)— we should all celebrate our successes! i am told that as both an independent business person and also a writer, that i need to build a platform, and so… uh, here’s me, doing that?

• i have been accepted into tin house’s online workshop (autumn 2025) that exclusively focuses on the speculative—and i will be studying short fiction under emet north! while the workshop doesn’t start until october, i need to say that working with the organization (shout out to A.L!) has been nothing but pleasant. they’re one of the more transparent orgs in terms of the selection and application process. for what it’s worth, i was surprised that i got in after being rejected last year. i’m learning—especially in re: tin house—that writing opportunities are not often a “no” or rejection forever. sometimes it does mean waiting for the right fit and perfect moment. (for anyone who wants to chat about this, feel free to respond or write in the comments! i’d love to talk about this more and share in the love of TH!)

• my newest non-fiction work, case study: living autopsy, an unintentional homage to samantha harvey’s the shapeless unease: a year of not sleeping, was released in mouthful of salt’s inaugural issue. thanks so much for having this little baby hybrid piece.

• there are some more really cool things i’m working on—a couple acceptances (which i will share once contracts are signed, and they are released into the world) and some other fun community-based events that i’ll be announcing when the details are hammered out.

and in more personal news:

• i survived a ten day cruise with my parents. LOL. that’s the point of this essay. i can’t believe it. (i love my parents a lot but jfc)

• started grad school part time. back in the clutches of the ivory tower, and sort of debating whether or not i have the spoons to get an mfa in creative writing (there are low-residency and local options that look appealing, and will not put me in debt) in addition to this program. (considering some of these options are adjacent to the work i’m already doing, the cognitive load doesn’t bother me.) does one need a formal education to become a writer? sound off in the comments/my inbox.

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