Home of the Brave, Afraid of Change

This isn’t political — or maybe it is to some. But to me, this is about identity.

It isn’t about sides, it’s about self.

I’ll never be the American they want me to be, and I don’t believe I ever would want to be.

Ethnically, I’m from the Gateway of Africa—known for its rich culture, a country that’s in a lot of ways like America.

Senegal was, as most African countries, traced on a map by foreigners. Clear to say—they did not care for cultural difference. So we became an involuntary unit, strangers stitched into the same flag. Strangely, we’re fine with it. This blend of tribes, languages, and rhythms made us whole. It made us us. A lot like America. We speak the same language—belonging.

You see, the America I cherish is not the America of traditions, not the one clinging to its past, wishing it would freeze in time. My America is constantly evolving—ambitious, unfinished, unafraid to be the difference.

I’m not here to say what they want me to say—that America was never great, that our faults erased our victories. I think America was great—for its time. But the promised land of the past is the damned land of the future.

Do you know what we stand for? “Land of the free, home of the brave” — does that not resonate? How is the brave so terrified of change?

You remember how we were but not why we were, so how could you ever see who we were? You’re stuck on a past you don’t understand—you’ve become the immovable object to our unstoppable force. You cling to comfort in the home of bravery.

And as you continue to reject who I am, never forget: I am America. I am the dreamers, the dissenters, the determined.

Within me lies the essence of our nation—not just its glory, but its grit, its protests, its progress, its refusal to stand still.