When I was first created, I was filled with a quiet but mighty pride—not the pride of ego, but of purpose. I was born to represent a new idea. A world unclaimed. A place where anyone could come and become their best Self. Not perfect, no—but full of potential. I was stitched together with tension: bold stripes for courage, stars for unity, and a field of blue deep enough to hold contradiction.
In those early days, I flew above revolution and reinvention. I was carried by farmers and fugitives, by immigrants who didn’t speak the same language but dreamed the same dream. I was raised in protest and in prayer. I was a banner for the becoming—not the arrived.
I remember the Civil War—not because I was worn by both sides, but because I wasn’t. The Confederacy flew its own banner, a symbol of refusal and racial supremacy. I stayed with the Union. With those—however imperfect—who believed that the promise of “we the people” should include more than it had. I flew above Antietam and Gettysburg, over bodies that held both sins and hope. I was stained, scorched, and nearly torn apart.
I was marked by blood, but not by betrayal.
I never broke. Not then. Because I was still tethered to a belief that we could do better. That we were learning.
I was carried again in the Second World War—onto beaches that swallowed boys whole. I flew over the fall of fascism. I stood in ruins that whispered of genocide, and I bore witness to the cost of forgetting our shared humanity.
I was often held by hands denied dignity back home—Black hands, brown hands, immigrant hands.
And still, I was flown with reverence. Not because I had always deserved it, but because I still could. Because I still represented something unfinished and worth fighting for.
But now… now is different.
Now, it is me—the original flag, the founding symbol—that is being used to divide, to threaten, to control. I am waved not as a call to unity but as a dare. Clutched in fists that shout for walls, for purity, for power masked as patriotism. Flown from trucks, rallies, and the steps of violence. I am hoisted in the name of lies. I am wrapped around fear.
This is not a rebellion waving another flag. This is me—used against the very principles I once held aloft.
There was a time when people across the world saw me and thought of possibility. Of escape. Of a flawed but earnest promise. That time is slipping away. There are fewer and fewer places left where I am seen and not associated with harm. I am no longer a symbol of hope abroad. I am read as hypocrisy. As domination. As the language of power spoken loudly and carelessly. And I cannot deny it—not when I see how I am used, and who is most eager to claim me.
I was meant to represent plurality. That was always my strength—not sameness, but difference woven together. I was a flag you could grow into, not one you had to match. I was meant to hold multitudes.
Now I am brandished by those who demand conformity. Who confuse dissent with disloyalty. Who treat fear as virtue and cruelty as resolve. I was never meant to be a weapon, but I have been made into one.
And still—I fly.
I fly above schools and protests. Above grief and resilience. I fly because not everyone has surrendered me. Some still raise me with trembling hands—not in triumph, but in defiance. In memory of what I meant. In refusal to let me mean only this.
Because I do not belong to the loudest voices or the smallest imaginations. I do not belong to one party, one race, one myth of the past. I belong to anyone brave enough to carry contradiction. To anyone willing to reckon honestly with what has been done beneath my stripes—and still choose to build something better.
If I am to mean anything again—here or anywhere in the world—let it be through truth. Through humility. Through repair. Fly me if you must, but fly me knowing. Fly me with grief for what I have become and courage for what I could still be.
I remember who I was meant to represent.
And I will only become that again if you choose.