A Dubious Where At Least I know I'm Free?

I have always had a problem with being American. (Don't arrest me yet).
And that statement can be interpreted in two ways. I have both consciously felt disdain for my nationality, appeasing the need for heritage by turning to my foreign-born parents, as well as feeling a sort of discomfort, an uneasiness with my American identity, instead preferring to ignore it altogether. I could not say where such responses arose from. They have simply always been. My parents have appreciated my country of birth for numerous reasons and to my knowledge have never held any disrespect for the dear US of A. So why this animosity? Why have I looked down on American culture? Why am I so quick to speak up when someone labels me as American? As if taking on such a mantle is hollow, flat, or lacking substance. I have always loved sharing with anyone who cares to listen that I have a Greek mother and Ecuadorian father, that these are my roots and my life is more in tune with their rthym than that of America? If I were to part up myself into pieces I would have given my American identity a mere sliver, not even a third of the pie.

I still do not know why. I may never know.
I'm not sure it matters it too much, regardless, because it's changing.
I didn't notice at first, but I am fortunately aware of it now.
And where I expected resistance from some other older part of me, there is none.
It has taken the last ten years as a legal adult, ten years of self-education, travel, awareness, and finally shedding some old stubborness to finally come to appreciate some aspects of American culture. And more importantly, coming to respect that piece of myself. Particularly in the way I communicate and relate to the world. It's a bit stupid of me really, but I am only recently realizing (and accepting) how American I actually am.
And I like it.