Stars and Soil

I wear red, white, and blue with the kind of pride that comes from choice— from packing roots into carry-ons, and chasing a flag that promised room. I light sparklers for freedom, wave stripes in the sun, not forgetting for a second that my fire was first lit in the Andes, that my heartbeat still hums in Quechua rhythms, in my mother’s accent, in the stories that didn’t need translation. I’m proud to be here— to have walked into this dream before it got priced like a gated parade, before visas became golden tickets for those already fed. Yes—laws matter. Lines matter. But what about the hands still reaching through barbed hope? What about the children whose only crime is wanting a sky that doesn’t shoot back? So today, I’ll hold both truths— this country I love, and the ache for what it’s forgotten. Because freedom was never meant to be exclusive. And liberty shouldn't come with a receipt.

Author’s Note:

This is an Independence Day post reflecting that I love this country and what it’s given me, but I also love where I come from. This poem is for those who carry two flags in their hearts, and for those still hoping for a chance to plant their roots here. I was born in Florida, but my roots stretch all the way to Peru — to the streets my parents walked before they ever imagined raising a child in the U.S. They came here legally, with very little, and everything they built started from scratch. Their sacrifices are why I get to write this from a place of both gratitude and grief. Because I do feel both. Grateful for the opportunity. Grieving for the fact that many people today won’t get the same one — not because they’re unworthy, but because the gate is higher, the rules harsher, and the dream harder to access. This poem isn’t about politics. It’s about memory, identity, and the in-between space where love for two countries can live at once. If you’ve ever felt torn, proud, confused, or quietly lucky — I hope this meets you there.