This Fourth of July, I Am ‘Remarrying’ America, and Renewing a Few Vows

Want to know the fastest way to be ridiculed on the internet this week? Try writing a column explicitly declaring that you’re renewing your metaphoric marriage vows with the United States of America. 

As far as I’m concerned, America and I were first married 36 years ago this month, when I came to this country as a young girl from post-revolutionary Iran (with an eight-month stopover in a small town near Rome, where the only residents were Jews fleeing Iran, Jews fleeing the former Soviet Union, and a handful of disgruntled Italians). 

The wedding ceremony was held at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York, where my family and I spent the night sleeping on benches at the terminal gate as we awaited our flight to sunny Los Angeles the following day. For pillows, we used our suitcases, which we filled with everything we had deemed precious enough to pack before escaping Iran. For some reason, our Persian kabob skewers made it into the suitcases, which should tell readers something about my family’s priorities. 

The wedding song was Milli Vanilli’s “Baby Don’t Forget My Number,” which reached the top of the charts in America that week in 1989. Ironically, it also could have been the last message that Iran’s then-Supreme Leader, Ayatollah Khomeini, left with us before we escaped the country, as an ominous reminder that you can leave Iran, but Iran will never leave you. 

We never did forget his number or the calling card that the regime has left with millions of Iranians worldwide.

As for the marriage certificate, it consisted of one sentence in English, hastily stamped on our Iranian passport (which became void once we set foot in this extraordinary country): “Admitted as a refugee.”

Have more beautiful words ever been written, or in this case, stamped, anywhere?

I was young, but I understood that those words meant that America wouldn’t send me back. Unless, I suspected, I committed an unforgivable act, such as planning a coup against President Bush (senior) or suggesting that something sounded off about that Milli Vanilli song. I was still testing the waters of freedom in America; still unsure of whom or what I would be allowed to mock or criticize without fear of arrest. 

Back in 1989, my wedding vows were simple: as long as the wonderful Americans allowed me to stay in this country, I would work as hard as possible, conserve my No. 2 pencils at school to preserve more beautiful, American trees and patiently try to learn and embrace their history, as well as their most cherished values, which I soon found out were freedom, valor and something called Doritos.

This week, in honor of the Fourth of July, I am remarrying my beloved America and renewing my vows. Cue the trolling and mockery from far more enlightened elites (and socialists) on both coasts.

There’s something about this moment in time, when some Americans are espousing so much visceral loathing for this country, that compels me to double down on my unshakeable gratitude and yes, continued awe, for my imperfectly immaculate America.  

There’s something about this moment in time, when some Americans are espousing so much visceral loathing for this country, that compels me to double down on my unshakeable gratitude and yes, continued awe, for my imperfectly immaculate America. 

Perhaps I’ll never understand why one hateful congresswoman who recently called America one of “the worst” countries in the world still chooses to live here and speak and protest and post freely on social media from the comfort of her home in America. Perhaps my incredulousness is a good thing. 

When flags representing the brutal regime in Iran are being waved by Western activists who can’t even identify the country on a map, it’s time to go all-in on your unabashed love for a country that I have long believed is kissed by the hand of God and held together by the backbreaking endeavors of an undervalued working class. I am especially referring to people who have neither the time nor the value system to climb a pole and tear down an American flag at a protest. On a crowded freeway. In the middle of the workday.

Here are some of the vows I am offering these beloved United States:

I vow to never allow my political affiliations to stand in the way of criticizing leaders from my own party. Groupthink political tribalism is anathema to being an American. 

I vow to learn astutely from the examples of other liberal democracies worldwide that have been selectively inept in responding to nefarious movements on their own soil — movements that seek to literally and figuratively burn the greatest values for which their host country stands. 

I vow to criticize various statements, policies and actions from the local, state or federal government without demonizing America as a whole, or claiming it is an inherently bad country. It is not a bad country; it is a beautiful promise and, at times, a miraculous mess, no matter who resides in the White House.

In that vein, I vow to inherently love this country despite who is president, and to understand that American flags should always be front and center at rallies and protests against American leaders.

I vow to never contribute to the erosion of compassion and civility that has taken hold in my beloved country, at a time when our own leaders and other public figures attack one another through character assassination and a lack of basic class that I hope will always leave me feeling stupefied and uncomfortable, because I know that as Americans, we can do better. 

I vow to navigate each day I live in this country with unapologetic gratitude, the kind that is so relentless that it is downright annoying. 

I vow to spend time each day learning about the life of one fallen American soldier, whether he or she perished last year or eight decades ago. Honoring the memories of the 241 Marines who were killed by Iranian-backed Hezbollah in 1983 will already constitute two-thirds of the year. 

I vow that I will not outsource my creativity and my voice to Artificial Intelligence, because it will contribute to a devastating decrease in American creative endeavor, the same endeavor that enchanted me as a little girl because despite my oppression in Iran, I knew somehow that the most creative magic, from Mickey Mouse to MGM, came from America. 

I vow to arrive back in Tehran, once Iran is free and stable, with an American flag draped around my shoulders. It will be a temporary vacation, marked by visits to people and places that were torn away from me, because my permanent home will be awaiting me in America, and those kabob skewers from Iran will still remain in my kitchen cabinet. 

I vow to use the greatest aspects of my Jewish faith and my Jewish identity to contribute to this remarkable country’s humanity, diversity, and prosperity.

Finally, I vow to still conserve those No. 2 pencils and to do anything else I can to ensure the flourishing of those wonderful American trees.

Tabby Refael is an award-winning writer, speaker and weekly columnist for The Jewish Journal of Greater Los Angeles. Follow her on X and Instagram @TabbyRefael.