“What does America mean to you?” he asked.
I sat back in the vinyl chair, thumb and index finger spinning around my silver ring. On the surface, the question felt easy. An image flashed in my mind of sunlight filtering through the American flag that hangs on my parents’ porch every Memorial Day. A second later, white fences and cornfield-lined two-lane highways spun through my memory. It’s easy to summon the Norman Rockwell paintings of what America’s supposed to be.
Just as quickly, my mind switches. It turns to difficult news headlines: polarization between political parties that trickles down to daily interactions and people who’ve lost everything due to no fault of their own. I think back to January, when my view undeniably fractured at the hand of one officer. Glossy images are replaced with a gritty new picture.
What is America, really? Today, in reality, not fantasy. The pause is long as I consider.
“Idealistic,” I say, sitting up straight to look directly into the glossy camera lens.
As the word tumbles out of my mouth, I feel resonance vibrating in my veins. It bubbles from my heart and pulses outwards, a small flow of energy that confirms my belief and resides on my pink cheeks.
“It — the country, the people — it’s idealistic, definitely,” I say.
My feet push against the floor and I resist the urge to cross my legs into a pretzel as I sit. I look at Richard, who watches me through a pair of wire-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Richard, a German film student, has a glint of his eyes: a mix of youthful confidence and skepticism.
“Why would you say that?” he asks, lingering slowly across the words.
“Well,” I say. “Look at it this way…”
I’ve crossed a little more than half of the 50 states that make up this country. Between densely populated cities and long stretches of rural highway, I’ve seen glimpses that I never could have imagined growing up in my suburban Midwest bedroom.
I had belongings stolen and my tent violated in September. I’ve been harassed more times and in more ways than I can count. I witnessed an overdose in a small town bar. I’ve heard stories of immense hardship, holding these struggles in my arms.
And yet, I wake up every morning and continue on. There’s no question in my mind that moving forward is the only way to go.
For every stumble along the road, I’ve been met with immense beauty 10 times more. I witness the best of the American spirit: people who are kind, generous, open, and willing to listen. I find people who love their neighbors, who make ripples of good in their communities, who lend a hand and pay it forward.
That, to me, is America.
It’s found in acknowledging the problems and making strides to fix them. It’s in the resilience that pulls a community together after a disaster, that paints over differences and reminds us that we are all connected by something greater than our individual selves.
America is recognizing the flaws in our systems, but striving to make it in this country anyway. It’s in the inherent belief that we can all succeed, that this is still the land of opportunity, that we will fight to keep that true for us — and for the generations still to come.
It is not a perfect country. No country is. But I truly believe that at its core, the American Dream still exists. I think that we still have the potential and the drive to pull together, bridge divides and bring this country to the next level. To find ways that we all can succeed.
More importantly, I believe that I am not alone. I think that among most of us, perhaps even all of us, that dream still flickers. It may not look the same, or even feel the same. But it’s the same spark that unites, that grows, that pushes us forward.
And that spark — that fearless ambition in the face of even the greatest uncertainty — is America.
It’s idealism to the core.
