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Is America an empire? A journey through its territories

By Danny Zimny-Schmitt

May 7, 2025

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In 2023, I completed a major life goal––traveling to each of the 3,144 counties in the U.S. (including those in Alaska and Hawaii).

 

Along the way, I found myself inspired to learn more about the places I visited, taking seriously the challenge of trying to understand them rather than just checking off a list. I was especially intrigued by those which differed from environments most familiar to me––inner city Chicago in my youth and Denver in adulthood. After running out of counties, but still itching to learn more about the nuances of America, I turned my attention to our five territories.

Few Americans could name the five US territories spread across the globe, from American Samoa, Guam, and the Northern Marianas in the Pacific to Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands in the Atlantic. Visiting each of these American outposts left me considering the odd sociopolitical space they occupy –– one of retaining some amount of local autonomy while simultaneously leaning into their assigned American identity.

So when did the United States acquire each of them, and how? Why do we keep hanging on to them? And does holding territories indefinitely make us an empire? I set off to try to find out.

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Cruz Bay, St. John, US Virgin Islands.  Photo by the author.

Prior to becoming US territories, each of the five territories had been conquered or integrated into the political and economic spheres of other countries. The influence of past Spanish control is evident not only in Puerto Rico but also in Guam and the Northern Marianas, where Catholic churches stand proudly and the names of municipalities and roads commemorate San Jose and long-dead Spanish generals.

 

Each territory is largely home to the local ethnic population that was present when the US began to formally administrate––ranging from the native Boricuas in Puerto Rico to Blacks in the Virgin Islands, Chamorros in Guam and the Northern Marianas, to Samoans in American Samoa. While each territory is diverse, the diversity is less akin to the rich diversity you might see on the New York City subway and more analogous to a neighborhood belonging predominantly, but not exclusively, to one ethnic group.

A National Park Service exhibit in Saipan summarized this push-and-pull of history well; a featured quote from a local historian recounted how the Spanish came first, then the Germans, then the Japanese, and then the Americans. The Spanish brought religion, the Germans brought education, and the Japanese had been most concerned about the economy, the historian explained. What exactly the Americans (who built the exhibit) had brought was left unsaid.

This omission does lend itself to the question of why the US retains control of these five territories. Are they colonies, reminiscent of those held by past empires?

 

That answer seems unlikely, given the lack of heavy tax burdens imposed on the local populations and the lack of raw material extraction––one or both of which have historically characterized colonies.

 

The small populations in each of the territories (only Puerto Rico is home to more than 200,000) lays to rest the idea that the territories are held as a captive consumer market for goods produced in the home country. All territories receive significantly more in federal outlays than they contribute in revenue to the US Treasury each year, as residents are generally not subject to federal income taxes. While the figure changes significantly year to year due to the variability of storm cost recovery funds, the largest US territory (Puerto Rico) receives roughly $5 back from Washington for every $1 it contributes in taxes.

 

Owning these pieces of territory across the globe thus comes down to the strategic position they provide the US in both ocean basins, at the low price of some financial support to the local economy. If they are indeed outposts of American imperialism, they give credence to the idea that America is the gentlest empire the world has seen.

That is not to suggest the lessons of history have been gentle. At the Castillo San Felipe de Morro in Puerto Rico, the military history and proxy wars by European powers are fully detailed, and America’s present-day interest, control of the island because of its strategic position at the entrance of the Gulf of Mexico, is spelled out.

 

In Guam and the Northern Marianas, historical markers of bloody battles––to wrest control of the islands from the Japanese during World War II––dot the landscape, the most haunting of which is called Suicide Cliffs, where Japanese soldiers committed suicide en masse to avoid surrendering to the advancing American forces.

 

Even the National Park of American Samoa features preserved gun emplacements, a plaque noting their historical purpose in keeping the Japanese out of Pago Pago harbor. The only territory whose National Park Service didn’t detail military history was the Sandy National Park in the Virgin Islands. It’s not hard to imagine that a large part of the reason for the continued US presence in these places is to have them available and ready to defend American interests in any future global conflicts.

So, are we an empire?

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WWII Memorial Site, Saipan, Northern Marianas Islands.  Photo by the author.

The tourism bump

Given their tropical locations, it should come as no surprise that tourism is a major economic driver.

 

Puerto Rico specifically advertises itself as a fun-in-the-sun destination that does not require a passport for US citizens, and numerous domestic and budget airlines also serve the Virgin Islands––both of these territories are less than 3 hours southeast of Florida by air.

 

The story is similar in Guam and the Northern Marianas, though the tourists frequenting their beaches come from Japan, South Korea, and China (selling a beach destination to Americans that is eight hours past Hawaii is understandably a tough job). While tourists to these territories still stay at the Crowne Plaza or Hyatt resorts and eat at Hard Rock Café or Chilis, they will likely arrive on a budget airline from South Korea or a United flight from Japan.

 

American Samoa is the lone exception––far enough from any major population center to be relatively free of tourists; indeed, there is only one hotel on the whole island bookable on the major travel booking websites.

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Old San Juan, Puerto Rico. Photo by the author.

Views of the mainland

How are Americans from the mainland viewed in each? I found that assumptions made about me (a young white man) traveling to each territory by cab drivers, servers in restaurants, and others I interacted with to be instructive.

 

In Puerto Rico and the Virgin Islands, I was seen as unremarkable; while in Guam, I was assumed to be military (there are two large bases on the island). In American Samoa and the Northern Marianas, I was met with confused looks and questions from locals––why had I traveled so far from home to see their island? I felt welcomed everywhere, though in some places that welcome was accompanied by more intrigue than others.

In line with how America is often viewed by the rest of the world – a beacon of economic opportunity for those willing to work hard for a better life – US territories are often viewed by their own neighbors as similar representations of economic opportunity. A taxi driver ferrying me to the National Park of American Samoa explained how he’d much prefer to live in Samoa, but that there was a lot more money to be made on the American side. In Guam, I met a Filipino who explained that he’d moved because the $10 a week he could be earning in Manila was dwarfed by the $15 an hour he was now making in Guam.

 

At their best, it seems that the territories provide crucial ingredients like political stability and economic opportunity to both local residents and people in the region more broadly. People born in four of the five territories (American Samoa excluded) receive American citizenship at birth––no small asset in today’s world. Natives from all territories have migrated to the mainland in search of better opportunities, most notably Puerto Ricans, who have established vibrant communities from New York to Florida.

 

The export of norms and culture from the mainland also has an effect on the territories, especially when it comes to more progressive attitudes on social issues. Travel guides to the Caribbean often note that San Juan is the safest and most accepting place in the region for LGBTQ travelers, followed by the Virgin Islands, something hard to imagine without the American legal and cultural influences in both.

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Legislative Building, Pago Pago, American Samoa. Photo by the author.

The other side of the coin

At their worst, the territories reflect the export of American consumerism and car-centric urban planning to places that would likely have retained far more of their local character without it.

 

It’s hard not to dwell on the downsides of America’s influence when you consider the dearth of almost any public transportation in Puerto Rico (a fairly densely populated island of more than 3 million) or the tacky commercial development along Tumon Bay in Guam, tempting visitors with the same unhealthy meals and overpriced shopping malls you see on the Strip in Las Vegas.

While American music can be heard in public places the world over, it feels especially overplayed in the territories. On a December evening in American Samoa, I heard Mariah Carey singing Christmas carols in the aisles of the grocery store, and then heard Frank Sinatra’s voice filling the hallways of my hotel. It left me wondering whether residents of the territories feel that overconsumption of American culture proves their belonging in the American family.

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Tumon Bay, Guam. Photo by the author.

Neither here, nor there

In many ways, visiting the territories felt like seeing one’s shadow. Just like on the mainland, the same social and economic inequalities are on display, the same automobile dependency of the built environment, and the same tacky elements of consumerism sticking out like sore thumbs.

 

While there may not be the same number of potholed roads there are in colder climes, there are instead unpaved roads that become impassable after a rainstorm. In lieu of rust belt cities, there are hollowed out husks of tourist hotels and resorts built for visitors that never came or left too soon.

 

After reading the reporting on local youth sports teams in the Saipan Tribune one morning, I reached the national section only to find columns sourced from the Los Angeles Times and familiar opinion pieces about political infighting in Washington. These distant cousins of ours know a lot about us, and they might appreciate our returning the favor. As an outside observer, I feel as though the territories have managed to carefully thread the needle of being a bit like themselves and a bit like us, forging a path of being neither here nor there.

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Danny Zimny-Schmitt holds a Master's degree in geography and works in the renewable energy industry. When he's not traveling, he enjoys reading, running, and advocacy work for local nonprofits. He lives in Denver.

We welcome Letters to the Editor. Send your thoughts, comments, and responses to jeanluc@thehartandthecur.com. We look forward to hearing from you. 

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