“...one Nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.” The pledge of allegiance was something I learned early into my school life; before science and arithmetic—before I knew what punctuation was—I could recite the pledge of allegiance. 

The eight o’ clock bell brought a brief interlude to the spaterrings of conversation. Right on cue, as the sounds of pushed-out chairs and shuffling fabric filled the room, our third grade class stood and clasped their hands to their chests. It was in those moments of solidarity that I felt as if the entire school body—no, as if the entire country were at my back, with a comforting hand on my shoulder. It was in those moments that I felt proud to be an American.

As I grew older, the scenery changed. I moved towns, changed schools, and glimpsed a little deeper at the underbelly of the country. It was most likely ignorance that sustained my unwavering faith in the flag—and as I learned more about the world, its politics and its hidden mechanisms, that shroud of mystery surrounding my great nation devolved into a suffocating cover of smog. 

The first time I heard about police brutality and racism, I was confused. Were those the same officers to whom I waved when passing by? Were those bad people that they shot? If not, then why? Weren’t we all neighbors, friends; weren’t we all Americans? That comforting hand on my shoulder began to feel foreign and cold. 

The next week, I read another headline in the news. Another man was killed. The next month, it happened again. Sandwiched in between articles on lipstick and home economics were the lives of fellow Americans—printed, published, and forgotten the next day. Before long, I found myself briefly skimming through those articles. It had become less profound to read about the lives of my countrymen; I had become more jaded to the evils of the world.

I haven’t recited the pledge of allegiance in a while. To be frank, I could not recite more than half of it without faltering, without forgetting the words. Looking back, perhaps America has had the same problem. Perhaps we have forgotten our simple, wholesome acts of patriotism—perhaps we have forgotten the words, the spirit that once bound the country together. But I still have hope. 

It is true that disparity, racism, and sin have become accepted facts of our country. But to simply accept that the world is as it is would only sink us deeper into the depths. I believe we can repair that American spirit. I believe in the moments we share with friends, the moments in which our mutual passions transcend gender and race; I believe that those moments are what harbor the lingering essence of America. I believe that the neighborhood cops to whom I used to wave are not bad people—that they, too, believe in a better America. I believe that America deserves a second chance—that we must actively work towards that chance—for the earnest souls that embody the American spirit, and for the young, ignorant minds that still blissfully chant the words to the pledge.