After a dozen years in the states, it’s easy for me to forget that I’m not actually an American.

Until someone feels the need to remind me that our British butts got whupped.

“Have a Happy Fourth!” tends to fall of my tongue as unthinkingly as a “Happy Christmas” would to someone who believes more in Santa than Jesus but wants to get in the spirit anyway.

I guess freedom — like grilling, hanging out with friends and shooting off fireworks — is one of those things you can’t really be against.

(Although there was the time trying to outrun a bottle rocket that I briefly wondered why it wouldn’t have made more sense for Americans to snidely celebrate their victory with a nice “cuppa,” in mock honor of their hot tea-loving loser cousins across the channel. So much safer!)

OK, all right, I admit it, I do love America.

Over the years I’ve developed quite a taste for the emotional paraphernalia of U.S. patriotism. I’ve even been known to shed a tear (yes, the Cocklebur does have a heart!) whenever I find myself staring into the night sky on a muggy July Fourth night and thinking about what an awesome country this is.

My spirit still responds most strongly to “America The Beautiful,” which I only recently learned is designated our national hymn. It must be the thought of those “spacious skies” and “amber waves of grain” that I remember from my time in Kansas, the first stop in the American adventure that led me here.

For me, the American West just sums up the crazy idealism and the romance of this great continent, explored and settled by hardy pioneers who lived like they had nothing to lose — really, the only way to ever live.

My favorite song, though, is the plaintive “God Bless America,” supposedly the unofficial national anthem.

I can appreciate the bombast of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” but I always seem to forget the words, which causes untold embarrassment for me, especially at official events.

Just don’t bother playing “God Bless the U.S.A.”

That song by country crooner Lee Greenwood sounds … just … seems … wimpy, the musical equivalent of a cardigan and slippers.

That makes sense if you’ve ever seen him.

At a show at the Anderson County Fair one year, I met two of Mr. Greenwood’s craziest fans, who readily admitted to attending every one of his shows and sending him hand-knit sweaters every year for his birthday. The topper was that he was wearing one of them that day!

But I digress.

So yes, folks, I am British, and I suppose I find myself on the “losing side,” as much as an ethnically Greek person can be.

While I can’t sing that “I’m proud to be an American,” I do feel like celebrating nonetheless.

Just don’t tell the queen.

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