There was a time when I saw the Fourth of July as fireworks, grilled food, and the hum of freedom in the background. I grew up with the promise of “liberty and justice for all” drilled into my head—like many of us did. I believed in the ideals. The symbols. The songs. Even the flag.

But something changed.

Or maybe it was always there, and I just started noticing.

These days, patriotism doesn’t feel like something I can wear on my chest with pride. Especially when the same symbols I used to celebrate have been co-opted—twisted—into tools of exclusion.

Let’s talk about that.

When the Flag Feels Like a Warning

The American flag used to feel neutral to me. Proud, even. But now? Now I see it flying off the back of a lifted truck with “Let’s Go Brandon” bumper stickers and an aggressive stare from the driver, and I don’t feel safe. I feel watched. Judged. Othered.

Because the way the MAGA movement has used the flag—and other patriotic symbols—doesn’t feel like unity. It feels like a line in the sand. A branding of “us” versus “them.”

What used to be a symbol of freedom now feels like a banner for white nationalism.
What used to mean we’re all in this together now means only if you look, speak, worship, and vote like us.

And here’s the kicker: I still believe in the promise of this country.
That’s why this hurts.

Criticism Is Not Hate

Let me say this clearly: Criticizing the state of the country is not the same as hating it.

Pointing out injustice isn’t anti-American. It’s necessary. The First Amendment—the very foundation of this supposed land of the free—protects our right to speak, protest, challenge, and question. You can’t wave the Constitution in one hand and silence dissent with the other.

But you know how it is. People who don’t want to hear your truth will twist it into something else. Confirmation bias is real. If someone’s looking for a reason to see you as “ungrateful,” they’ll find it—no matter how much you explain your position with logic and love.

They’ll say things like:

• “If you don’t like it here, leave.”
• “Go back to your country.”
• “Be thankful for what you have.”

As if patriotism means passive acceptance. As if love of country can’t coexist with a desire to make it better.

The “For All” Part Matters Most

When I think about the Fourth of July now, I think about who’s not free.

I think about immigrants in detention centers.
I think about women and people with uteruses losing bodily autonomy.
I think about trans kids being targeted by cruel laws.
I think about book bans, press restrictions, and communities who are told they don’t belong.

And I think, how can I wave a flag while this is happening?

That’s not to say I don’t appreciate what I do have. I’m grateful for my freedoms. I’m grateful for my voice. But I won’t pretend that “justice for all” is real if it isn’t.

Because true patriotism, in my opinion, is holding the country accountable to its promises.
And the promise is this: liberty and justice for all.

Not some.
Not the wealthy.
Not just those born here.
Not just those who check certain boxes.

All.

Patriotism Without Performance

I want to live in a version of this country where patriotism doesn’t require pretending.
Where I can love my home and demand better.
Where my critiques aren’t seen as betrayal, but as care.

Because I do care. Deeply.

I care enough to want more for this country. I care enough to raise my voice, even when it shakes. I care enough to write this blog post even though I know some people will read it and only see what they want to see.

But that’s okay. That’s the cost of honesty.

I still hope—maybe foolishly, maybe stubbornly—that we can do better. That this country can live up to its founding documents. Because somewhere in there are words that make me believe:

“Congress shall make no law… abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press…”
“The right of the people to be secure… against unreasonable searches…”
“Nor cruel and unusual punishments inflicted.”

These words matter.
These rights matter.
The people fighting for them matter.

So this year, on the Fourth of July, I may not be waving a flag or blasting patriotic songs. But I’ll be reflecting. I’ll be dreaming. And I’ll be hoping—with all my complicated, aching, determined heart—that we find a way forward that includes all of us.

Because that’s the only version of patriotism I want to be part of.