This is not the America that I grew up in.
The one I knew smelled like cut grass and pennies,
like library books and rain on hot sidewalks,
where disagreement still shook hands afterward
and the flag wasn’t a weapon, just a promise—
creased, imperfect, but meant to cover everyone.
I remember neighbors, not sides.
Porches, not platforms.
Arguments that ended with pie.
Now the air hums with static,
everyone shouting through glass,
truth dressed up like opinion,
cruelty calling itself courage
and getting a standing ovation.
The streets feel tighter.
The words feel sharper.
The future feels pay-per-view.
We were taught that freedom meant breathing,
not bracing.
That justice was slow but sincere,
not selective and sponsored.
Somewhere along the way
we started confusing power with volume,
wealth with worth,
and winning with being right.
I still believe in the bones of this place—
the stubborn hope,
the quiet kindness that doesn’t trend,
the people who keep planting gardens
in scorched soil anyway.
But this version?
This one feels like a house with familiar walls
and unfamiliar rules,
where the lights are on
and the soul keeps flickering.
I’m not done believing.
I’m just grieving
the country that raised me
and wondering—softly, stubbornly—
if it remembers me too.