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.