Sonja Egeland Kelly

Only 1/3 of Americans have one. Much of the world wants one. My passport is my most prized possession.

When living in South Africa, I went through a phase where I wanted to move there permanently. I was discussing this one day with a friend, and he challenged me, “Yes, you would like to stay here and be a South African. But would you be willing to give up your American passport?”

He had discovered my weakness: my passport. It is more precious to me than gold, and sits reverently in my safety deposit box. I love its worn, dog-eared pages full of stamps. I recently had to apply for more pages, and I love the way they stick out defiantly in the middle. I love how it reads like a map of my heart, and how it explains pieces of my personality. A year in Ireland, three weeks in Kenya, a couple days in a few Eastern European countries, a week in Japan, ten days in Ghana… the highlights of my life are all recorded in that little book. It is my scrapbook, my badge of honor, and my hope for my future.

And I would never be able to give it up.

It stands for something more, though. Despite the fact that Americans have become relatively unpopular in the last few years, my passport is still a key that unlocks dozens of doors. I get waved through security with relatively few questions, and I hardly ever have to contact an embassy for a special visa. Not so for my African and South American friends. They have to apply for a visa to travel anywhere. They face the possibility of rejection, and the danger of snap judgments based on their marital status, their bank account balance, and their travel history.

My passport makes me feel privileged and guilty all at the same time. It makes me brim with pride but also avert my eyes in shame (when I arrive at immigration in another country and get waved through while others are questioned or brought into a different room). But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.