The Promise of America

Yes, the country has changed, hardened. But if anger is the spark, hope must be the fuel.

I was 2 years old when my parents brought our family to this country — too young to grasp the enormity of what they had done, leaving behind everything and everyone they knew in search of something better. And yet, I was old enough to remember the feelings, the textures of those early days — the sounds, the colors, the sense of newness and excitement that hung in the air.

Photo by Stephanie McCabe on Unsplash

The image that has stayed with me most vividly all these years is from that first Fourth of July: American flags draped across the porches on our street — bright, bold, impossibly vibrant. They seemed larger than life, as though they carried with them a promise I was too young to name but instinctively understood. My father bought one too, proudly mounting it outside our modest home, as if he had been waiting his entire life for that moment.

With each passing year, his pride deepened. And the year he, my mother, my brothers, and I became citizens, that pride transformed into something almost sacred. He would say — with a conviction that allowed no room for doubt — that there was no greater country on Earth.

For him, America was never an abstraction. It was not merely an idea or a symbol. It was a belief — steady, unshakable — in a place that had opened its doors, welcomed us in, and extended opportunity with the simple expectation that he work hard and contribute. And he did. Tirelessly. With grit, with devotion, with quiet determination. He built a life. He and my mother raised children who spoke English with ease and Spanish with affection. They kept their Colombian roots alive — in the food, the music, the stories—but they never hesitated in how they defined themselves.

American. Not partially. Not conditionally. Not hyphenated or qualified. Fully, unequivocally, American.

I grew up wrapped in that belief — in the pride, hope, the expansive faith that in this country, the sky was truly the limit. That if you dared to dream big, if you worked hard enough, if you believed in the promise of this place, anything was possible. I learned that our diversity was not something to mute or minimize but something to celebrate — something that made us stronger, sharper, more resilient.

But something has shifted. Something cracked.

When I was growing up, the more blatant forces of xenophobia and racism — the kind so many immigrants and people of color now confront daily — felt less visible in my day-to-day life. I knew they existed, of course. I understood their history, their persistence, their harm. But it felt as though they were relics of a past we were collectively trying to move beyond — something that, when it surfaced, was met with discomfort, even shame.

It was not worn as a badge of honor. It was not a political identity. It was not something to be celebrated.

And yet, over the past decade, those quiet prejudices that once lingered in the shadows have stepped boldly into the light. The whispers have become chants. The sideways glances have hardened into policy. Resentment has evolved into strategy. The voices that once muttered “go back to where you came from” now say it openly, confident they will be validated, even applauded.

And so, the conversations I now have with my father about what it means to be American are no longer simple. They are layered with sadness, with confusion, with anger, with a profound sense of betrayal. This is not the country he believed in so fiercely. This is not the America he brought us to.

Yes, I feel that anger, too. But anger is not the endpoint. It is the spark. Hope must be the fuel.

My father still hopes — still believes — that this is a momentary lapse, a forgetting of who we are at our best. He believes America will remember herself — remember what she has stood for, remember the millions who have looked to her as a beacon of possibility. He believes that the country that embraced him still exists beneath the noise.

I want to believe that, too.

And there are moments that remind us that the promise endures. The Supreme Court’s decision to uphold birthright citizenship stands as one such bright beacon — a powerful reaffirmation that the idea of belonging in America cannot be so easily narrowed. At a time when forces seek to redefine who counts, that ruling is more than legal precedent; it is a moral signal that the Constitution still carries an expansive vision of inclusion.

But even that light does not erase the broader reality: there is still so much to repair.

Because being American today — if you are an immigrant or a person of color — has become more complicated. Heavier. It is shaped by a decade in which xenophobia and bias were not only present but amplified and, in some cases, celebrated. Forces that once felt dormant now move with confidence.

And that has consequences. It narrows the definition of belonging. It distorts the meaning of being American. It dims the brightness of an idea that once felt limitless.

And yet, here we stand at the threshold of the nation’s 250th anniversary — a milestone that compels reflection. It asks us to look backward with honesty and forward with intention. It challenges us to define, again, what it means to be American.

For me, it has always meant possibility. It has meant the freedom to imagine a life beyond the circumstances of your birth. It has meant believing that your children will inherit opportunities you never had. It has meant the courage to build a life in a place where you may not know the language or the customs, but you trust that your effort will matter—and that the law will protect your right to strive, to succeed, to belong.

It has meant embracing the idea that our diversity is not a threat, but a gift—that the rich tapestry of cultures, identities, and histories woven into this country is precisely what makes it extraordinary. It has meant understanding that patriotism is not blind loyalty but a commitment to ensuring that this nation lives up to its highest ideals.

It has also meant confronting contradictions. Acknowledging the failures. Reckoning with the injustices that have always existed alongside the promise. The story of America has never been simple, never been linear, never without flaws. But embedded within it is the enduring belief that we can do better — that we must do better.

At 250 years, America remains a work in progress. Still evolving. Still grappling with who she is and who she aspires to be. Still capable of greatness. Still capable of reinvention. Still capable of remembering the values that made her, for so many, a symbol of hope.

So, what does it mean to be an American today?

It means holding two truths at once: that this country has given so much, and that it has, at times, fallen painfully short. It means loving this nation enough to fight for its soul. It means refusing to allow the loudest voices of division and hatred to define us.

It means insisting that the promise my father believed in — the promise that brought my family here — is still worth defending.

Being American means belonging, even when others try to tell you that you do not. It means claiming your place in this story not because permission was granted but because you earned it — through your work, your resilience, your grit, your contributions, your unwavering belief in what this country can be.

At 250 years, America is asking us who we are.

And we must answer simply and boldly: We are the people who believe in possibility. We are the people who come from everywhere and build something together. We are the people who refuse to give up on the idea that this nation can be better tomorrow than it is today. We are the people who refuse to let the light dim in the eyes of that little girl gleaming at the red, white and blue of her first American flag.

That, to me, is what it means to be American.

Maria Cardona is a political strategist and commentator and founder of Latinovations.

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