I’m Learning to Forgive America

and it’s setting me free.

Photo by Mathew Schwartz on Unsplash

I’m not sure when I first understood what a country was, but it was after my teachers told me to put my hand on my chest and pledge allegiance to one. To be honest, I’m still not sure I understand. Is it a line of ionic columns and penned declarations? Hollywood, redwood, amber waves of grain? Is it borders and laws, history or culture? What, on earth, is America?

I don’t know when I first understood what my country is, but I know when I first lost faith in it. The year was Y2K and I was seven whole years old. I sat in the living room with my Liberal parents and watched the colorful shapes of states turn red on the TV map. My parents didn’t like it when they turned red and they liked it when they turned blue. I didn’t know much about donkeys and elephants, but I was good at math and I could recognize that the math did not add up.

According to the television, Al Gore had more votes than George Bush. The numbers were there. The people had spoken. 9/11 was my first day of fourth grade. By sixth grade, I knew about Iraq and Afghanistan. I knew it was wrong. By ninth grade, I knew about Halliburton. By tenth, I knew my best friend had been assaulted, multiple times, for being queer. In eleventh, I knew about genocide and the Trail of Tears. By twelfth, I believed I could change things. I had to change…