Elara is a seasoned software engineer and tech writer, passionate about demystifying complex technologies and sharing actionable advice.
After six decades together, America, our partnership must conclude. Though fondness remains, the passion has diminished and I'm making the difficult decision to separate. This departure is voluntary, though it brings sadness, because you possess countless wonderful qualities.
From your breathtaking national parks, soaring ancient trees and unique wildlife to the enchanting glow of fireflies amid cornfields on summer evenings and the vibrant autumn foliage, your natural splendor is extraordinary. Your ability to spark creativity appears limitless, as demonstrated by the inspiring individuals I've encountered within your borders. Many of my most cherished memories center on tastes that permanently connect me to you – cinnamon spice, pumpkin pie, fruit preserves. However, United States, I simply don't comprehend you anymore.
If I were composing a separation letter to the United States, those would be the opening words. I've been what's termed an "accidental American" since birth due to my father and ten generations preceding him, starting in 1636 and featuring revolutionary and civil war soldiers, shared genetic material with a former president plus multiple eras of settlers who traversed the country, from Massachusetts and New Jersey to Ohio, Pennsylvania, Illinois and Kansas.
I feel tremendous pride regarding my ancestral background and their contributions to America's narrative. My dad grew up during the Great Depression; his grandfather served with the military overseas during the first world war; his single-parent ancestor operated a farm with nine children; his relative helped rebuild San Francisco following the seismic disaster; while another ancestor ran for political office.
Yet despite this quintessentially American heritage, I find myself no longer feeling connected with the country. This is particularly true given the perplexing and concerning political atmosphere that leaves me questioning what American identity represents. This phenomenon has been labeled "citizen insecurity" – and I recognize the symptoms. Now I desire to create distance.
I merely lived within America a brief period and haven't returned for eight years. I've held Australian citizenship for most of my life and no intention to live, work or study in the US again. And I'm confident I won't require military rescue – thus no functional requirement to maintain U.S. citizenship.
Additionally, the requirement as an American national to file yearly financial documentation, despite neither living or employed there nor qualifying for benefits, proves burdensome and anxiety-inducing. The United States ranks among merely two countries globally – the other being Eritrea – that implement levies based on citizenship rather than residence. And financial compliance is mandatory – it's documented in our passport backs.
Certainly, a tax agreement exists connecting both nations, designed to prevent duplicate payments, yet filing costs vary between A$1,200 and A$3,500 annually even for basic returns, and the procedure represents extremely demanding and convoluted to undertake every new year, as the American fiscal cycle begins.
Authorities have indicated that eventually American officials will mandate conformity and impose significant penalties on delinquent individuals. These measures affect not only extremely wealthy figures like Boris Johnson but every U.S. citizen abroad need to meet requirements.
While taxation isn't the primary reason for my renunciation, the recurring cost and anxiety of filing returns proves distressing and basic financial principles suggest it represents poor investment. But neglecting U.S. tax responsibilities would mean that visiting including extra worry about potential denial at immigration due to irregular status. Alternatively, I could postpone resolution for inheritance processing after death. Both options appear unsatisfactory.
Holding a U.S. passport represents a privilege that countless immigrants earnestly attempt to obtain. But it's a privilege that feels uncomfortable for me, so I'm taking action, although requiring significant payment to finalize the procedure.
The intimidating official portrait of Donald Trump, glowering at attendees at the U.S. consulate in Sydney – where I recited the renunciation oath – provided the final motivation. I understand I'm selecting the correct path for my situation and when the consular officer inquires regarding external pressure, I honestly respond negatively.
A fortnight later I obtained my official relinquishment document and my canceled passport to retain as mementos. My name will reportedly appear on a federal registry. I simply hope that subsequent travel authorization gets granted when I decide to visit again.
Elara is a seasoned software engineer and tech writer, passionate about demystifying complex technologies and sharing actionable advice.