Nationalism, as a term, evades definition. Dissuades it. It might be described as
I’ve even had a teacher describe it as just feelings, the wishy-washy nothing-stuff you’d associate with English class. Do you see the hedging that I’m doing, the textspace required to house its festering mass? Despite my eyeroll-based protests to that’s teacher schticky and fake hatred for one half of Humanities, he was right. Nationalism, as a term, regrets definition.
But something so inimicable to the experience of an immigrant is not something one can then avoid. Of course, its not unique to immigrants either; all of us wading through something that if not is tangible definitely has tangible consequences. It informs my excitement at having my country mentioned. It is what drives someone to call me a dog eater, based on misconceptions of Chinese people and misconceptions that I’m Chinese. Toeing the line between the beach and its waves. Then, walking a coastline. Then, the stuffed nothing of it; the wash of a wish.
This is part of forming an identity. Your nation is unavoidable. Even if you declare yourself a “citizen of the world”, in either Socratic or anarchic terms, that definition is dependent on The Nation by being against it. And much more surely other people will do it for you, whether inaccurate, impolite, or just plain nonconsensual. To that point, then a nation, or its retinue/related terminology like ethnicity or race, becomes something that’s a part of you. While not unique to us, this fact is more pointed for an immigrant.