On this Independence Day, I’m not here to reject the flag, but I am here to ask what it truly stands for. Symbols are only as strong as the meaning we give them, and today, that meaning feels fractured. Contested. We wrap so much in red, white, and blue, but I wonder how many of us stop to ask: what do those colors still promise?
I come with a question: Who are we, really? Not who we say we are—not the slogans or the songs. Not the fireworks or the parades. But in the quiet moments, in the hard choices, in how we treat the vulnerable, who are we?
Because if this country was ever meant to stand for freedom, we have to ask: whose freedom? And at what cost? I’ve pledged allegiance. I’ve stood for anthems. I’ve bowed my head in ceremonies that wrapped the flag around our history and called it justice. But somewhere along the way, I realized that tradition without truth is just performance. And I can’t play along anymore.
The truth is, we are not well—not socially, not ethically, not communally, not morally, not politically. We have constructed a system where cruelty is policy, where profit is protected more fiercely than people, where power convinces the rest of us to look away. And still, we dare to call it righteous.
We call ourselves a beacon of liberty, but we build higher walls and lock our gates. We claim to be a land of opportunity, even as we criminalize poverty, displacement, and survival. We sing about freedom while making it unreachable for far too many.
And yet, millions still come. They come with nothing but the hunger in their bellies and the courage and hope in their hands. They come believing we meant it when we said, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…” That promise lives in the hearts of those who line up at consulates, who cross deserts, who dream beneath fences and whisper quiet hopes in detention cells. But it is a promise we have failed to keep.
And a reminder for those among us who claim to be shaped by scripture—those who carry their politics and identity in the name of faith—there should be no confusion here. From Genesis to Revelation, the Bible unambiguously presents a vision of justice that centers the stranger, the immigrant, the displaced. Christianity is, at its root, an immigrant faith. It was born of exile. Borne through flight. The prophets and Jesus alike reserved some of their most scathing words for those who mistreated or failed to welcome the outsider.
The mandate is not subtle:
“You shall treat the stranger who sojourns with you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself.” — Leviticus 19:34
“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing so some have entertained angels without knowing it.” — Hebrews 13:2
“I was a stranger, and you welcomed me.” — Matthew 25:35
There is no asterisk on God’s love. There is no theological justification for cruelty at the border. And no human being is illegal in the eyes of God.
And still, I hope you hear me clearly when I say I love this country. I love its wild, flawed, stunning diversity. I love the strange and radiant poetry of its people. I love the pluralism, the creativity, the immigrant tapestry still being woven every single day. I love the way we build, dream, improvise, and imagine. I love the idea of America—not as myth, but as a vision. It’s real. It’s never been fully realized, but it is possible.
And my love for this country is not abstract. It is blood-bound. My father, both grandfathers, uncles, and great-uncles have spilled blood in defense of this beautiful place. Their sacrifice wasn’t for slogans or partisanship—it was for a vision. For something better. That legacy lives in me, and it demands that I not stay silent.
Because the idea we hold so dearly, that freedom can belong to all, is slipping from our hands.
Just yesterday, at a rally in Des Moines, Iowa, during what was meant to be a nonpartisan celebration of this country, President Trump stood before a crowd and said he Hated Democrats. “They wouldn’t vote only because they hate Trump,” he said. “But I hate them, too, you know? I really do. I Hate Them. I cannot stand them, because I really believe they hate our country.”
We have heard sharp rhetoric from presidents before. We have witnessed partisanship, even bitterness. But we have never ever heard a commander-in-chief stand on American soil and say that he hates half the country he leads. That moment wasn’t just disturbing. It was historic. It crossed a line that once felt unthinkable. And it should break our hearts.
History teaches us, with brutal clarity, that once a leader learns to hate his own people, he will never serve them again. He will only try to conquer them.
That is why I grieve today; the day of our Independence. That is why I fight to remain hopeful. So today, I am in no mood for celebration. But I do not despair either. I lament. I pledge allegiance to not only a flag, but to my neighbor, my community, and to the hope I carry in my heart for what our country can and should embody and become.
I love the United States of America too much to watch it become unrecognizable, and I love it too much to go backwards.
The America that blessed slavery, segregation, internment, and displacement—the one that fought against civil rights, hoarded resources, and shut its doors to the poor, the queer, the Black and brown, the marginalized, the disabled, the outsider—has returned with a vengeance. It seems like that small, cruel, sinister version of America is, somehow, the most powerful voice in the room these days. And, as far as I'm concerned, it must not have the final word.
On this Independence Day, I grieve what we are, but I fight and pray for what we could and should be.
So let us gather with our communities—not in celebration, but in shared lament. Let's check on our immigrant neighbors. Let's turn our fury toward compassion. Let our protest be love made manifest. Let our resistance be care.
Because freedom is not something we inherit. It’s something we build—together. Deliberately. Defiantly. In love.
This is a beautiful country. From sea to shining sea, in its dialects, its music, its unrepeatable human mosaic—it is, still, something worth saving. A million Donald Trumps cannot change the fact that, to so many, we remain a beacon of hope. A light in the darkness. A repository of dreams for those who continue to be guided by Lady Liberty’s torch and toward the dream of a better life for their children. The promise is not dead. But it must be protected.
May we become worthy of our ideals.
And maybe, just maybe, we can learn to love this place not blindly, but bravely. Not with the silence of loyalty, but with the courage of accountability. As James Baldwin once wrote, “I love America more than any other country in the world, and exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.”
Let that be the kind of patriotism we choose. The kind that builds. That kind that breathes. That kind that tells the truth. The kind that protects the vulnerable. The kind that belongs to all of us.