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Tuesday is my America-versary. Every year on July 20th, my family commemorates the day my mother and I arrived in America. My father and grandmother had arrived a couple of years earlier. We got out. We are free. We celebrate.
We will toast our luck and declare: The United States is the greatest country in the history of the world, and we are so grateful to wake up here.
Saying so shouldn’t make anyone uncomfortable. But it does.
It’s a tough moment to be a patriot. Radicals are rewriting our history, framing America not as a shining beacon of freedom, but a pit of wickedness. They are recasting our heroes as villains.
Our flag is triggering. Our National Anthem no longer represents us all. Nothing about us is good. Everything is bad.
This isn’t a fringe sentiment. That article about the “polarizing” nature of the U.S. flag ran in The New York Times. The National Football League is playing the “black national anthem” before games this fall.
But as an immigrant, I get to reject all of this out of hand. I’ve