America, it’s been 60 years but I’m breaking up with you. I still love you but I’m not in love with you and I’m calling it quits. I’m going willingly although I’m sad because there is a lot that’s wonderful about you.
From your magnificent national parks, soaring redwoods and unique wildlife to the magic of fireflies amid the corn fields on summer nights and the vibrant colours of autumn leaves, your natural beauty is stunning. Your capacity to inspire creativity and innovation is boundless, as reflected in the inspirational people I have met who live within your borders. So many of my fondest memories of our time together revolve around the flavours that will always remind me of you – cinnamon, pumpkin pie, grape jelly. But, America, I just don’t understand you any more.
If I were to write a break-up letter to the US, that’s how it would start. I have been what is called an “accidental American” since birth thanks to my father and 10 generations before him, beginning in 1636 and featuring revolutionary and civil war soldiers, shared DNA with a former president and generations of pioneers who crossed the country, from Massachusetts and New Jersey to Ohio, Pennsylvania, Illinois and Kansas.
I am so proud of my family’s history and their contribution to America’s story. My dad grew up during the Great Depression; his father served as a Marine in France in the first world war; his widowed great-grandmother managed a farm with nine children to feed; his great-uncle helped rebuild San Francisco after the 1906 earthquake; and his grandfather ran as a state senator.
Yet despite this quintessentially US family history, I find myself no longer feeling a connection with the country. This is especially so considering the perplexing and alarming political climate that leaves me questioning what being American means. It has been dubbed “citizen insecurity” – and I think I have it. Now I wish to distance myself.
I have only lived in the US for two years and I have not visited for eight. I have been an Australian citizen for almost four decades and have no intention of living, working or studying in the US again. And I am certain I will never require extraction by a Seal team – so there is no requirement for me to remain a US citizen.
Additionally, the obligation I have as a US citizen to file a tax return every year, despite not living or working there or qualifying for any benefits, is onerous and stressful. The US is one of only two countries – along with Eritrea – that taxes based on citizenship and not residence. And tax compliance is mandatory – it’s written in the back of our passports.
Sure, there is a tax treaty between Australia and the US, designed to prevent double taxation, but it costs between A$1,200 and A$3,500 each year just to get an average, simple return prepared, and it’s an extremely demanding and byzantine process to undergo every January, when the US tax year begins.
I have been told that, at some point, the US government will enforce compliance and impose substantial penalties on those who are delinquent. And it’s not just mega-wealthy people like Boris Johnson who are targeted; every US citizen living abroad must comply.
While I am not renouncing because of taxes, the cost and stress of filing each year is distressing and basic economics tells me it is a poor investment. But ignoring my US taxes would mean that a visit to the US comes with the added anxiety of potentially being turned back at immigration for non-compliance. Or I could leave it for my estate to sort out upon my death. Neither option is satisfactory.
Having a US passport is a privilege that thousands of immigrants are desperately trying to obtain. But it’s a privilege that I do not feel comfortable with, so I am doing something about it, although it is costing me US$2,350 to do so.
The menacing photo portrait of Donald Trump, glowering upon those gathered at the US consulate in Sydney – where I take the oath of renunciation – is the final push. I know I am making the right choice for me and when the consular officer asks me if I am being coerced into renouncing, I truthfully answer no.
Two weeks later I have my certificate of renunciation and my hole-punched passport to keep as a souvenir. My name will apparently be listed on a federal register. I just hope that I am granted a visa next time I choose to visit.
• The author is a writer living in Australia
