This Is My Country

When I was in kindergarten, my teacher taught me a song. At the time, I did not know it was one of the songs in the boy scout cannon. I only knew out of all the patriotic songs I had learned about America, It was my favorite. More than the Star-Spangled Banner. More than the Battle Hymn of the Republic or America the Beautiful, it to me resembled closest to my family's experience here in these United States. I was born and raised in Miami, FL. My mother was born in Key West and raised in Miami. But my father came to these shores from the Bahamas as a teenager seeking a better life. And my Mother’s parents came here in the early 20^th century from the Bahamas seeking the same. I was a native American by both birth and choice. My own birth and the choices of my direct ancestors. So, when my kindergarten teacher taught me “This Is My Country” I was sure it was written for folks just like me whose direct ancestors were among the huddled masses yearning to breath free. It was OUR American song.

It wasn’t until I was about 11 that I began to feel the dissonance between the lyrics of that song and the history of America. Age 11 is when I fell in love with history and my eyes began to open to the atrocities wrought on this land in the name of “The Republic.” I learned about the native genocide, slavery, The Civil War, Jim Crow. I witnessed the war on drugs and the false narrative of “black on black” crime being played out on the nightly news that I always watched with my father and realized that the words of my once favorite song were all a lie. It was a lot for a tween to take in. I went from disappointment to disdain to disillusion, but through it all I kept reading and ingesting history, hoping that eventually it would all make since.

At age 16 something interesting happened. I decided that though America had not always lived up to the story told to me as a 5-year-old, it could, if we worked to make it accountable to its written creed. I attended rallies against injustice. I was a member of all the student organizations in my county; Students and Youths against Racism, The African Cultural Awareness Society, Green Peace and SO many others. It was as if I truly believed I could and would singlehandedly change America and the world for the better. The idealism of youth, unclouded by the cynicism of having lived too long on earth, is such a beautiful thing. 

I’m 44 now and that wide-eyed optimism has all but vanished. I’ve seen too much of America to think any one person could shake her from the grips of the White Supremacist Capitalist Patriarchy that has always threatened to be her undoing. But, my living has taught me that people united CAN make a difference. It’s taught me that looking your demons in the eye and facing them is the only way to excise them. And it’s taught me that hope somehow always springs eternal in the hearts of us, who call ourselves citizens of these United States.  It is the hope that keeps us fighting for freedom, justice, and equality for everyone. It is hope that makes us fight without ceasing for the heart of this country we want to love despite all its flaws.

On this inauguration day, as the 45^th president, a man who openly derides and divides, is sworn in. I chose to reflect on the people who love America, but fear what his presence in that office will do to their individual lives as well as the country. I chose to resist his fascist rhetoric with the only weapon I have ever had, my voice and creativity. And I’ve chosen to help America face its demons in my little movie. Zora Neale Hurston said, “If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it.” I may get tired and even disgusted with America, but I will never be silent. My place here was paid for by the blood of my ancestors. It is for them I fight and for the generations to come. This is my country, to have and to hold.