Worst things about America

I wrote this love letter to America:

A love letter to America

I wrote it for different reasons. I wrote what I felt. I also get a little annoyed by the never-ending stream of stories bashing America. My problem is not that the criticisms are not fair but that some authors often paint too rosy a picture of alternatives.

But I don’t want to paint a rosy picture of the US either. Here is what I don’t like about America.

• Fucking shootings. Thank God, it’s not something that’s happened near me but, clearly, it can happen anywhere, any day. When my friends or relatives point how fucked up America is with its gun violence and mass shootings, it’s truly embarrassing because it is … embarrassing. This part of America is so gruesome that you just can’t live in ignorance and think that that shit happens somewhere in another state, somewhere far from you
• Healthcare. That being alive and healthy is not a right but a privilege in a developed country is mind-boggling. Several times I lost my job or sometimes left voluntarily to pursue entrepreneurship. I was also going through the immigration process. Getting insurance proved a nightmare. It’s expensive and difficult logistically. You spend hours on the phone, only to discover that the “open enrollment period” only starts in a few months and there is no way to get covered; or you have to provide your permanent residency status
• Immigration. I don’t know how it is in other countries. Maybe also as difficult. Maybe it should be difficult, but not that difficult. It’s really really hard to get to a green card. I got to mine through an employment-based visa but it took me eight years — thanks to various disruptions and delays, many of which were beyond my control. And if you don’t have permanent resident status, you run into all kinds of limitations. One example I already mentioned (healthcare). America is known to be entrepreneurial, yet entrepreneurship-based immigration doesn’t exist.
• Public transportation. Unless you live in New York City or maybe some other metropolitan area, without a car you’re really handicapped. When I first came to America, in the distant 1994, I had to ride a bus to my language school in Wichita (Kansas). Growing up in…