The word “empire” has a distinct place in the American lexicon: readily applicable to other countries but rarely, if ever, to the United States itself.
Even in the spring of 2003, when American forces were occupying Iraq and Afghanistan and government officials were writing torture memos, the defense secretary Donald Rumsfeld seemed almost offendedwhen a reporter asked whether the United States was engaged in anything like “empire-building.” “We're not imperialistic,” Rumsfeld insisted. “We never have been. I can't imagine why you'd even ask the question.”
The tone of aggrieved incredulity may have been laid on a little thick, but Rumsfeld's sentiment neatly aligned with how many Americans prefer to see their country — as a republic that was born from revolution and necessarily hostile to imperial rule.
This self-image is “consoling, but it's also costly,” Daniel Immerwahr writes in “How to Hide an Empire.” “At various times, the inhabitants of the U.S. Empire have been shot, shelled, starved, interned, dispossessed, tortured and experimented on. What they haven't been, by and large, is seen.” Even today, barely half of mainland Americans know that Puerto Ricans are fellow citizens.
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