When my great grandmother came to the U.S., did she know its promise would end? Did she think about it as she sat on a ship with her little ones? Did she consider it as she yelled and swatted at them to stay still, anxiously fearing they’d fall into the ocean? Was it on her mind as she chased down her husband, who’d left to mine coal in the Pennsylvania mountains?
Was it something she considered, as she lay dying, not long after arriving on America’s shores?
At any time, did she recognize that the promise of this place was too good to be true? Probably not. The U.S. is, after all, a master at selling itself. It’s how we ended up with a reality tv host as president.
Plus, in her defense, she was desperate. And desperate people will believe all sorts of things. Especially lies. Lies become a kind of currency when you have nothing else.
Like the lie that you can become king of a country that almost killed itself to break free from one. Or the lie that you can make people love you. Or the lie that if they don’t, you can hurt them until they do.
And the lie I believe, like my great-grandmother before me, that anyone can be saved.
The US is a country of lies, with a handful of beautiful truths that, occasionally, break through.
The lie I tell myself is that the handful is enough. That it’s fuller than it is. That the hand we grasp them in hasn’t yet squashed those truths into dust.
And what are those truths? The ones reported to be self-evident?
I don’t know anymore.
But that’s a lie too. Or at least, it’s not entirely honest.
My neighbor called. They got the wrong order delivered to their house. Do we want their extra food?
I wake up on Saturday morning to the sound of my other neighbor mowing the lawns of the ones who can’t mow their own.
I bake scones for our neighbors two doors down. They just sold their house to move into their daughter’s home this weekend. Their daughter has an illness the doctors can’t seem to figure out. She needs help taking care of herself and her kids.
Our elderly neighbor fell and hit his head on the sidewalk. We share the news on a neighborhood text chain that he’s in the hospital, but alert. A few days later, we share the details of his viewing so we can all show up to honor him.
None of this is unique to America. But it is the most beautiful thing about it when we let it be its truth.
Because truth is currency as well.
A far stronger one that holds its value across lands, and across seas, and in the hands of those who protect it, recognizing just how powerful and sacred it is.
The one that sets us free.