On this Fourth of July, I’m not proud to be an American.
I didn’t choose it. I was born here. That’s it. No merit. No virtue. Just luck and a zip code.
Being proud of something that random feels absurd.
It’s like being proud of your blood type. Or the weather on your birthday. Or the fact that gravity hasn’t failed you yet.
I used to feel something when I saw the flag.
I used to believe the stories.
The “land of the free,” the fireworks, the anthems—they worked on me once. I took them in like ritual, not yet realizing they were mostly myth. Or worse: marketing.
But the older I get, the harder it is to pretend this performance is truth.
Especially on the Fourth.
The Cult of Country
Nationalism is the last socially acceptable cult.
It demands loyalty. It demands silence. It demands reverence for symbols over substance.
And in return, it offers a fantasy.
A story in which being born here makes you exceptional, moral, chosen. As if your GPS coordinates at birth made you holy.
Most of us didn’t build this country. We didn’t write the Constitution or fight for its independence. We inherited a system we barely understand—and we act like it makes us superior.
We’re proud of things we didn’t do.
We chant “freedom” while ignoring who it’s withheld from.
When I hear the national anthem now, I don’t feel pride.
I feel distance.
Same way I feel listening to Sgt. Pepper’s—nostalgia, craftsmanship, sure—but I don’t mistake it for revelation.
The Red Hats and the Real Flags
The loudest patriots often know the least about what they’re defending.
They celebrate America like they earned it. Like they handcrafted it with grit and moral clarity—when really, they just happened to be born here, same as the rest of us.
They light fireworks while cheering book bans.
They call it “freedom” while celebrating the rollback of reproductive rights.
They wave flags while refusing food, shelter, or safety to those not born under the same one.
They’ve turned “liberty” into a brand.
One that justifies cruelty.
One that feeds on fear.
And all the while, the realities they refuse to see keep unfolding:
Children in cages.
Teachers underpaid.
Corporations unregulated.
The sick bankrupted by survival.
But hey—cue the anthem.
Start the parade.
A Celebration of Symbols, Not People
I’ll eat the hot dog.
I’ll watch the fireworks.
But I won’t clap for the costume.
We keep praising the performance while the foundation rots.
We call this freedom while millions are trapped in cycles of poverty, addiction, incarceration, and hopelessness.
We’ve built a spectacle on suffering, and then taught ourselves not to see it.
Belonging Without Belief
Let me be clear: I live here. I’ve built a life here. I love people here.
But that doesn’t mean I worship the mythology.
You can belong to a place without buying its fantasy.
You can care for a country and still critique its delusions.
I’m not asking for perfect. I’m asking for honest.
Because pride without reckoning isn’t love—it’s denial.
Let the Sky Explode
So yeah, I’ll watch the sky explode tonight.
But I won’t pretend it means freedom.
Not while suffering is wrapped in bunting.
Not while injustice is drowned in patriotic soundtrack.
Not while we mistake being born here for being good.
I wasn’t proud to be born here.
But I’ll damn sure try to be proud of how I live here.
That’s the only kind of patriotism I can stomach.