A Personal Reflection on America’s 250th Birthday!

"Perhaps the greater question is not whether I love America, but whether America has ever truly loved me."

Elinor A. McNeel

When people ask me whether I love America, I struggle to answer because love has always meant trust, respect, acceptance, and the belief that you matter. My life has taught me something very different.

At thirteen years old, I began to understand that the country of my birth did not see me the way I saw myself. I was not simply a young girl with dreams and unlimited potential. I was a Black girl who, in the eyes of too many people, had already been assigned a place. That lesson followed me into adulthood. Racism was never an isolated incident. It appeared in classrooms, workplaces, neighborhoods, conversations, and opportunities that quietly disappeared. Sometimes it was loud and unmistakable. Other times it was subtle enough to be denied, but painful enough never to be forgotten.

The insults, the discrimination, the bullying, and the constant reminders that I was somehow “less than” slowly chipped away at my faith in this country. One of the moments I have never forgotten was hearing the ugliest word in the English language—the “N-word”—spoken casually by someone who herself belongs to a people with a long history of persecution. It was a painful reminder that suffering does not always produce compassion. Sometimes it simply teaches people to look for someone else to stand beneath them.

People often say, “Love America because of what it stands for.” But what has America stood for in my life? It has stood for promises made but too often broken. It has stood for equality written into law but denied in practice. It has stood for watching people who looked like me work twice as hard to receive half the recognition. It has stood for explaining away prejudice as misunderstanding, while expecting those who endure it to forgive, move on, and remain grateful.

I have listened to speeches celebrating freedom while wondering why freedom has always seemed to arrive later, and in smaller portions, for people who look like me. I have watched history repeat itself generation after generation, each era promising that this time will be different. Yet racism adapts. It changes its language, its methods, and its appearance, but it never seems to disappear.

So, when I hear the question, “Who truly loves America?” my answer is complicated.

I cannot say that I love a country that has so often made me question my worth. I cannot celebrate ideals that I have spent a lifetime watching denied to so many Americans because of the color of their skin. I cannot ignore generations of pain simply because the calendar says America is celebrating another birthday.

Perhaps the greater question is not whether I love America, but whether America has ever truly loved me.

What does freedom look like? To me, freedom is waking up without wondering whether my race will determine how I am treated. It is walking into every room knowing I belong there without having to prove it. It is being judged by my character, my integrity, and my accomplishments—not by stereotypes that have survived for centuries. Freedom means that my children and grandchildren, and every child after them, inherit a nation where equality is more than a slogan repeated every Fourth of July.

I have spent a lifetime wanting to believe that America could become that nation. I have hoped for it more times than I can count. But after a lifetime of witnessing discrimination, exclusion, and injustice, hope has become harder to hold onto. Perhaps future generations will see the America that has always been promised. I sincerely hope they do.

As for me, I remain unconvinced.

I was born here. I have worked here. I have contributed here. I have paid taxes here. I have endured here. But loving a country requires believing that your humanity is valued as much as anyone else’s. My experiences have made that belief difficult to sustain.

So, on America’s 250th birthday, I cannot offer a celebration. I can only offer the truth. And perhaps truth, however uncomfortable, is the greatest act of patriotism any citizen can give a nation that still has so much work left to do.

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 About the author

Elinor A. McNeel, currently retired after a lengthy career as a Legal Assistant, decided to return to school at Penn State University to pursue her Bachelor’s Degree in Law and Society. She enjoys reading a good book, writing, editing, and anything involving technology. Elinor is a published author of Understanding Rhetoric: A Student Guide with Samples and Analysis and has co-authored the upcoming book, Racial Lines, Blue Lines: An Urgent Dialogue on Race and Law Enforcement. Originally from Chicago, IL, her family relocated to Los Angeles, California, where she presently resides.