On Returning

 On Returning

J. Michael Pontious July 1, 2025

Growing up in Oklahoma, I’d have laughed if you’d told me I’d one day travel the world. Our rare family vacations meant a weekend in Oklahoma City—visiting the zoo—or a trip to Salt Plains Reservoir to fish and sleep under the stars.

College opened my eyes to the rugged beauty of southeast Oklahoma, where camping at Beavers Bend State Park became my escape. I craved understanding how its history and people differed from the familiar rhythms of the northwest.

As an adult, international travel became a privilege I embraced. My hunger to explore other cultures, taste their foods, and walk through their architecture has been breathtaking—a joy I pursue whenever possible.

These journeys changed me. They taught me how others perceive Americans like me. I’ve witnessed the "Ugly American" in fellow travelers and learned to strip that behavior from my own life.

I’ve practiced medicine in third-world countries on mission trips. There, I discovered a shared humanity with people whose lives bore no resemblance to mine. I brought my children along, showing them firsthand the privilege of growing up in America. These experiences anchored us all in gratitude for home and the fragility of life.

Through it all, returning home was the sweetest part.

Until it wasn’t.

Like many, I’ve watched recent government shifts unravel longstanding norms—a source of deep anguish. We had a system that worked, one that supported all citizens, regardless of status.

I spent my career as part of that safety net, training family physicians to serve rural Oklahoma. We cared for Medicaid patients, nursing home residents, and mothers bringing new life into the world. I watched their children grow into contributing members of society.

Some of these patients weren’t citizens. Some stumbled through English. Some couldn’t read it. All tried their best.

So, flying home from Europe to Georgia recently, I braced for the usual: long immigration lines, the ritual of shuffling luggage from international to domestic terminals, the questions about my travels.

The mechanized scan of my passport.
The flash of the camera—praying it granted me reentry.

Then I saw it: travelers from other countries, bewildered by signs and language, berated for standing in the wrong line. Shouted at for misunderstood instructions. Welcomed not with openness, but with frustration and anger.

It turned my stomach.

Powerless to help without risking my flight, I stood trapped in line, wondering: Why would anyone endure this?

When my turn came, I answered the officer’s questions. I pulled my laptop from my bag, removed my shoes and belt—hoping my pants wouldn’t fall—and passed through the scanner.

For the first time, no one said, “Welcome home.”