At the root of the American story—beneath the slogans and the fractures, behind the endless parade of red, white, and blue—is something quieter and more enduring: compassion. Not the sentimental kind, but the gritty, active kind. Compassion that shows up, gets its hands dirty, and walks with its neighbor. I have seen it in VA hospitals and shamanic circles, in the eyes of recovering addicts and young men marching toward citizenship. That spirit, more than any policy or party, is what defines America at its best. It is teamwork. It is the long walk home—together.
But the myths we tell about ourselves can obscure this deeper truth. America sells two stories that live in tension: the Land of Opportunity and the Melting Pot. One promises individual ascent if you work hard enough. The other implies that in coming together, we will dissolve our differences and form a singular, unified American identity. Yet neither has ever told the whole truth.
We never really melted. From the beginning, we gathered in clusters—Chinatowns, Little Italys, Black Wall Streets, Irish blocks, Latino barrios. These were not failures to assimilate. They were strategies for survival. Language, music, cuisine, rituals, and sacred grief all crossed the ocean with us, anchored us, and refused to be erased. To this day, culture is how many of us remember who we are when the world forgets.
Instead of a melting pot, we became something closer to a trail mix—rich in texture, varied in flavor, stubborn in identity. That stubbornness is not a flaw. It is our resilience. Each of us trying to live at the crossroads of where we come from and where we are going. One foot in the dream, the other in our lineage. The danger is not in difference. It is in pretending that difference disappears once we cross the border or sign the lease.
The dream of opportunity, despite its uneven terrain, still matters. I have walked it. As a veteran, as a journalist, as someone who faced terminal illness and came back, I know what it means to fight for a second life. But here’s the inconvenient truth: no one gets there alone. The lone-wolf entrepreneur, the self-made titan, the bootstrap myth—it sells tickets, but it does not reflect the way most people survive and thrive. In reality, every dreamer needs a crew. We need teammates, customers, critics, neighbors, friends. We need the village, not just the grind.
Our politics, however, are another story. The right leans into heritage—family, law, discipline, responsibility. The left reaches toward inclusion—equity, bodily autonomy, shared safety. Both believe they are protecting freedom. They just define it differently. To the right, freedom is self-determination. To the left, it is expansion of access. Both wave the flag. Both want safety and dignity. Yet both sell fear: the right warns of decay, chaos, and infiltration; the left warns of systemic injustice and exclusion. The narratives have hardened into brands. Citizens are marketed to, not spoken with.
Meanwhile, most Americans live in the messy middle. We believe in secure borders and humane immigration. We want to respect police and demand accountability. We love the flag and still call out its failures. This is not indecision; it is nuance. It is the space where real democracy lives—uncomfortable, complicated, unbranded.
As I write this, I am watching from across the equator. For the past five years, I have lived in Colombia. I married here, carry Colombian residency, and yet still call the United States my home. Living in Latin America changes your view of the North. Watching recent immigration protests from afar—marches stretching from Los Angeles to New York, Mexican tricolors waved alongside U.S. flags—I felt a deep, painful irony.
I understand the symbolism. People march to honor their roots while asking for justice from their adopted country. But I also know what it means to be a foreign guest. If I took to the streets of Bogotá to protest Colombian policy and carried an American flag, I would be seen as a provocateur, not an ally. The optics matter. In an age of performative politics, the images we choose can become ammunition. Cable news thrives on it.
Back here in Colombia, the pain is not symbolic. It is literal. This past week, dissident groups launched two dozen coordinated attacks in Cauca and Valle del Cauca. Car bombs, sniper fire, blood on the pavement. Just days ago, presidential candidate Miguel Uribe Turbay was shot. Dozens are dead or wounded. Yet children still walk to school. Shopkeepers still open their doors. Life grinds on because what choice do people have? Survival, here, is not a partisan game.
So I stand between two Americas. The United States is my passport, my native tongue, the soil that shaped me. Latin America is my marriage, my daily life, and the land that gave me healing after cancer. Both are on fire—one politically, one literally. We pretend the two are disconnected, but they are not. The health of our hemisphere is bound together. If we keep playing carnival games in Washington, we will miss the real fire spreading across our backyard.
It is time to retire the branding wars. “Red” and “Blue” are marketing terms, not moral absolutes. Melting is not the goal. Harmony is. We do not need to become one bland soup. We need to be a trail mix—each piece holding its shape but nourishing the whole. That means investing not only in our borders but in our neighbors. We cannot thrive while the South burns.
If you believe in hard work, then make sure the track is not rigged. If you believe in law, then ensure it is just. If you believe in opportunity, then stop pretending anyone gets there alone.
I have known what it is to be an outsider. I have known what it is to lose everything and to begin again with nothing but spirit and will. What kept me going was not a flag or a party—it was a handful of people who refused to let me fall. That is the America I believe in. Not the myth, but the team.
So whether you are carrying a U.S. passport in Bogotá or waving a Colombian flag in Los Angeles, remember this: we are not opponents. We are companions in the dream. The real test is not whether we win the next election. The real test is whether we can remember that no one makes it alone. The American dream—our shared dream across the Americas—will not survive if we keep seeing each other as strangers.
It is time to stop yelling. Time to start building. Together.