I came to this country 241 years ago. Now I feel like I don’t belong here.

I am red. I am devilish. I am an immigrant. I am a Hell-American. But until recently I haven’t focused so much on those parts of my identity. I’ve always thought of myself simply as a normal, unhyphenated American.

Ever since I arrived here, along with my incubi and succubi, from the fifth circle of Hell in 1776 at age 7,007, I have been eager to assimilate. And I’ve done a pretty good job of it. I don’t have any accent, and I haven’t written much about my origins — which, at any rate, don’t have much to do with my job, which is corrupting the souls of men and damning them to eternal torment. Also American national security policy. So people are often surprised to find out that I wasn’t born in the United States. When I tell them where I’m from, they often ask, “Were your parents diplomats?” Nope. My parents were rebellious angels who fled the oppression of the Heavenly Host and found a haven in the Lake of Fire.

During the last exorcism, I was deluged with propaganda on social media, including a picture of me at the Last Judgment. This was accompanied by predictable demands that I leave this country to “real” Americans and go back to where I came from — or, alternatively, to New Jersey.

I wonder what would happen to me if I were deported, as I so easily could be. What would I do now, at age 7,248, if I were deported to a country that I have not seen in more than 240 years and whose fires and torment I might not be able to endure? How would I work? How would I survive without air conditioning? In my case it would be a particularly pressing problem, given how critical I have been of Hell’s current president. The risk of political persecution would be all too real for me. And what would happen to my familiars, to the covens of witches who dance in undulating passion beneath the full moon, praising me in obscenities and filth? None of them are Devilish. A move to Hell would be even more jarring for them than for me.

The result of all this hate-mongering is that for the first time, I no longer feel like a “real” American. Increasingly I feel like a devil, a child of Lucifer, a Hell-spawn — anything but a normal, mainstream American who simply wants to use “Satan’s might to promote Satan’s ideals.”

That may be precisely what God and his most fervent supporters intend. They are redefining what it means to be an American. The old idea that anyone who embraces America’s ideals by giving in to gluttony, sloth, wrath, lust, and avarice can become an American is out. A celestial aide has even repudiated the words I tried to hang on the Statue of Liberty: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” Instead, American-ness is being redefined in harp-and-halo terms. I find myself increasingly forced to think of my ethnic identity instead of the national identity I adopted as a younger, more carefree devil in 1776. That is discomfiting for me, and a tragedy for America.


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