From pride to shame to resist.

The patriotism has turned heavy in my throat.

(Here I am, representing.)

I was a ‘50s baby (just barely), born with a flag in my hand, stars on my baby blanket, an anthem humming in my ears before I knew what words meant. We pledged allegiance before we knew what allegiance cost, hand on heart. It was a big deal at school all those years. And to get invited to pledge that allegiance over the intercom at Hillcrest Elementary School for all to hear! The thrill and the pressure!

We colored inside the lines of liberty and justice for all, never asking who drew those lines or who got erased. We revered the Statue of Liberty.

I once believed the myths: that freedom rang, that we were brave and good, that our wars were noble and our streets paved with second chances. I waved my tiny flag at parades, heart swelling with unearned pride, as if patriotism were a birthright, not a responsibility.

But something shifted. The pageantry peeled back. I saw cages at the border and a Concentration Camp in the swamps of Florida, bodies in the street, schools shot through with bullets, and silence. I saw working-class people betrayed by their own government. I saw books banned, history whitewashed, truth gagged by the hand that feeds it. I saw how some were told to go back where they came from, while others were handed the keys to a kingdom they’d done nothing to build. I saw masked kidnappers operating in broad daylight. I saw the death of empathy.

(Image by Aida Amer/Axios)

The patriotism and pride turned heavy in my throat. I stopped singing the anthem. I stood still as others saluted, feeling the sharp edge of disillusionment where once there had been awe. I remembered that dissent is a form of love, too. That to be ashamed is not to stop caring, but to care enough to demand better. I watched righteous dissent in the form of taking a knee become a platform for cancellation.

So now I walk quieter. Not because I am less American, but because I am more awake. I carry the weight of our contradictions, our unfinished promises, our collective forgetting. And I ask: what do we do with a dream deferred, not by enemies, but by ourselves?

This year, I won’t watch fireworks burst over a land still burning. I won’t chant freedom when justice chokes on its own breath. I’ll light a candle instead, for the America that could be—if only we were brave enough to tell the truth about the one we are.

And I’ll also make plans for the next acts of resistance. As activist Kelly Hayes wrote yesterday on Facebook, “Come what may, I will bet on us, every time, because there is no other bet worth placing. I am all in, fam. I will never stop looking for openings and aiming at them. I will never stop reaching for people and saying, ‘Take my hand. We can do this.’ Because we are worth it.”

Love,

Patti