ArcaMax

Dear America: The Fourth of July was hard this year. The flags still waved, the fireworks still cracked across the sky, but it's an empty celebration when Congress voted for millions to lose health care, when people cheer for humans to be eaten by alligators, and where masked people disappear people off the street, the work site, while gardening at their home.

My country. My complicated, fractured home. I keep reading the news and waiting for a reason to believe in you again. Moreover, a part of me continues to look for who I believed you to be.

America, I've been away, in more ways than one. I pulled back to protect something in me that was wearing down. The pressure of staying engaged while so many tuned out began to feel unbearable. For years, I believed in the possibility of helping you become something better, rather than having that version magically appear. However, that belief has started to thin, and I needed distance, space, and perspective.

America, I miss you. Or, I miss the version of you that made space for hard questions and didn't try to silence the people asking them. I miss the people who wanted to build something within your borders, even when they weren't born inside them. I miss a version of home that may have never existed in full, where a pursuit of happiness would be open to everyone.

You know, America, I recently visited my other homeland and met people who knew me from before, in the times before I had become as tired, as disappointed, and frankly, as angry with you. I'm not sure, but I think they were shocked at how I've changed because of you.

For them, life had become smaller, more resigned. There was comfort there, and perhaps even peace, but I couldn't feel at ease in it. It was in the country, with an abounding ability to finally touch grass. But even with the twittering of birds, there was a call of stillness that made me uneasy. It reminded me of how easy it could be to stop fighting and how quietly that surrender can settle in, especially with privilege.

I carry a different kind of stillness, a flow of resignation, the type that lives in the marrow. I feel worn thin by years of conflict, repetition, and unyielding headlines. I have watched harm multiply while people argue over whose truth matters most. Still, even in that fatigue, there is a voice that keeps whispering. It says there may still be time to return, and we can't wait for perfect moments or a clean path to resist the loss of who we can be. We will need to face what we are becoming.

America, it's not about the fireworks. It's in the quiet work of rebuilding something that still belongs to us. We won't be bringing a flag, but we will have the necessary tools for whatever situations we might encounter. You are not an easy country to love. But you are one I still hope for, one that could live up to a narrative that embraced a future brighter than its past, even with all of your current darkness.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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