This post contains personal reflections on patriotism, Christian nationalism, and systemic injustice. If those words make you uncomfortable, I invite you to examine why—before assuming this post is about you. Side effects may include discomfort, introspection, and an uncontrollable urge to Google “performative patriotism.” Consult your conscience before proceeding.
✝️ God, Country, and the Gaslight Gospel
For most of my life, I was taught that patriotism was next to godliness.
Literally.
I grew up in a deeply conservative, evangelical environment where being a “true American” was tightly woven into being a “true Christian.” Church was framed as an act of patriotism. The sanctuary was decked out with flags, the Fourth of July was treated like a holy day, and the phrase “God and Country” wasn’t just a theme—it was theology. We were taught that the United States was God’s chosen nation, and that divine favor would remain as long as we stood by Israel and voted Republican.
It was a worldview that didn’t just shape what I believed—it shaped how I saw everyone else.
We were the good guys. Everyone else? Suspect at best. Threats at worst.
Immigrants were viewed as dangerous invaders. Queer people were whispered about as though they were deviant and broken. People of color were often treated as inherently criminal, even if they believed exactly what we believed. They just didn’t look the part, and that alone was enough to justify suspicion.
And God forbid a Democrat took office—because suddenly, questioning the president was once again “patriotic.” Funny how that only ever applied to one side.
It was all so manipulative. The sermons, the flags, the songs. I loved being American growing up. I loved the symbolism, the story we were told. But now? I feel like my love of country was stolen from me.
Twisted.
Used.
Weaponized.
It hurts to even wear red, white, and blue now. It feels like I’d be signaling something I no longer believe in—a version of America that excludes people like me.
But the truth is, the crack in that patriotic armor came long before I admitted it out loud. And the shatterpoint? That was George Floyd.
Regardless of his past—real or alleged—he was murdered. And the people I grew up trusting… defended it.
They said he should’ve complied.
They shrugged and shifted the blame.
They twisted their gospel around a man’s dying breath.
“How do you comply with a knee on your throat?” I remember screaming that inside my head, over and over again.
That moment broke something in me. But it also woke something.
🕊 What I Know Now
True patriotism isn’t about silence. It isn’t about defending a country just because you were born in it. And it damn sure isn’t about flags in churches or pledges in classrooms while injustice runs wild in the streets.
Patriotism, to me, is the willingness to love this country enough to change it.
To protest when it fails.
To advocate for those it pushes aside.
To demand better—not just for myself, but for everyone.
Patriotism is welcoming the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free—not locking them in cages or building walls to keep them out. It’s knowing that “We the People” has always excluded some of us, and fighting like hell to make that right.
Nationalism tells us America belongs to a select few.
Patriotism says it belongs to all of us—or none of us at all.
I’m still reclaiming that word.
I’m still figuring out how to love a country that doesn’t always love me back.
But I refuse to let the people who hijacked my faith also hijack my flag.
🎆 The Fourth Used to Be My Favorite
I hate that I have to say this, but…
July 4th used to be my favorite holiday.
The fireworks. The cookouts. The red, white, and blue everything. It used to feel like a celebration of unity, hope, and possibility. It was the one day where everyone seemed to be on the same team—even if just for a few hours under the same sky.
But now? It feels hollow.
Performative.
Like a group cosplay of “land of the free” while entire communities are actively being stripped of their rights.
The same people waving the biggest flags are often the ones cheering for the loudest bans.
The fireworks still go off, but the freedom feels… selective. Conditional. Incomplete.
And I hate that.
I hate that something that once brought me joy now brings me grief.
I hate that the symbols I used to love feel hijacked.
I hate that the anthem still brings a lump to my throat—but now for all the wrong reasons.
But here’s the thing: I want to take it back.
Not to what it was for them—but to what it should’ve been all along.
Because real patriotism isn’t just hot dogs and Instagram captions once a year. It’s about showing up.
It’s about defending everyone’s rights, not just the ones that benefit you.
It’s about saying, “This country is broken—and I love it enough to demand better.”
Until July 4th honors all of us, the celebration won’t feel right.
But I still believe it can be reclaimed.
I still believe it can mean something more.
⚡ What I Wish I Could Tell My Past Self
You weren’t wrong for wanting to belong.
You weren’t wrong for loving where you came from.
But you were misled.
And now you know better.
And knowing better means doing better.
I may never be the kind of flag-waving American I once was.
But I’ll show up in the streets, in the voting booth, in conversations that matter.
Because real love—the kind that builds, protects, and frees—isn’t performative.
It’s radical. It’s messy. It’s hard.
And that? That’s what patriotism actually looks like.
✊ Final Word
I don’t want a sanitized version of America.
I want one that’s honest. One that owns its failures. One that repents and repairs.
Because loving something doesn’t mean pretending it’s perfect.
It means fighting for it when it’s broken.
And if that makes me un-American to some of y’all?
So be it. I’ll take justice over jingoism every single time.
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