Whitelash

Forenote: Before reading any of my posts please know that my writing is an ongoing reflection of the conversations in my head—a living, evolving process rather than a final product. Sharing it is just my way of bringing you into that dialogue and letting it change and grow. Thank you for sharing in its journey with me.

My preface is that loving your country is like loving yourself—you can be proud of who you are, while still acknowledging your flaws and working to grow. Just as self-love doesn't mean denying your mistakes or blindfolding yourself to past wrongs, patriotism doesn't require ignoring a nation's history. In fact, the deepest form of love—whether for self or country—is the kind that holds space for truth, accountability, and the desire to do better. As I am a living process I am creating my country is a living process that we, all of us, get to create.

From Colonial Republic to Aryan Nation—And Back Again?

The United States has never been a finished project. It's always been a nation pulled between its ideals and its realities—between the dream of liberty and the machinery of domination. That contradiction has shaped our national DNA from the start. And for me, growing up in Central Indiana, that contradiction felt invisible for a long time.

My childhood unfolded in a place that seemed almost entirely white. I can still count the families who weren’t: one Black family, one Indian family, and one Italian family though I’m sure there were others I’m not remembering. You get the point. Here’s the thing—despite our racial differences, there wasn’t tension. There wasn’t cultural panic. If anything, it felt like a kind of Midwestern utopia, a small-town bubble of safety and belonging. I played with the Italian son, Walter, next door like he was a cousin. We shared meals with the Indian family and learned flavors and spices I’d never encountered before. I remember holding the hand of the daughter of the Black family, Linda, at the roller skating rink—awkward, sweet, and completely unremarkable at the time.

We weren’t "overrun" by multiculturalism. There was no clashing of civilizations. We just were.

A Country Founded on Whiteness

Of course, that bubble was built atop something much older and more challenging that I wasn’t aware of. The U.S. began as a settler colonial republic—founded on the displacement of Indigenous peoples and the enslavement of Africans. The American identity was from its inception designed to be white, male, and Protestant. In other words, me.

The Naturalization Act of 1790 made it plain: only “free white persons” could become citizens. That wasn’t a bureaucratic oversight—it was the foundation of a racial republic. The “original rights” we often glorify—freedom of speech, religion, due process—were written into the Constitution. But they were only meant for a select few. The same Constitution that declared liberty also protected slavery.

The Founders dreamed big but defined narrowly. “We the People” meant something radically different depending on who you were.

From Whiteness to Aryan Superiority

That narrowness evolved. By the 19th and early 20th centuries, whiteness wasn’t just social—it was “scientific.” Influenced by European race theorists, Americans embraced eugenics and the idea of an Aryan, Nordic, superior race. These ideas drove immigration policy, sterilization programs, and public schooling.

The Immigration Act of 1924, heavily influenced by Madison Grant’s The Passing of the Great Race, was designed to preserve “racial purity.” It welcomed northern Europeans and excluded those from Asia, Africa, and much of southern Europe.

These weren’t fringe beliefs. Eugenics was mainstream. The KKK boasted millions of members. Even Hitler looked to American race laws as a model.

It’s chilling to realize how many of those ideas were considered patriotic—part of safeguarding America’s identity.

The Mid-Century Reckoning

After World War II, with the horrors of Nazi ideology freshly exposed, America slowly began to change course. The Civil Rights Movement forced the nation to reckon with its hypocrisies. The 1965 Immigration and Nationality Act dismantled explicitly racial quotas. Yep, 1965.

And for a time, the vision of a multicultural, pluralistic America seemed to take root. By the late 20th century, cities like Los Angeles and Miami became vibrant tapestries of language, cuisine, and culture. I remember being exhilarated—getting lost in the rhythm of Miami Beach, surrounded by the music of Spanish, Portuguese, Russian, Creole. Los Angeles, with its textured mix of voices and skin tones, felt like the America I wanted to believe in.

I've always felt nervous around homogeneity. It doesn’t feel like safety to me—it feels like erasure or living with blinders on.

The Backlash: A White Nation Reimagined

But diversity in America hasn’t come without resistance. The election of Barack Obama, rather than healing the nation’s racial divide, exposed just how entrenched it remains. The rise of Donald Trump, the torchlit chants of “Jews will not replace us” in Charlottesville, the coordinated attacks on critical race theory, and the rollback of DEI initiatives all signal something deeper than cultural unease.

They reflect an organized effort to reassert America as a white, Christian, patriarchal nation.

Groups like the Proud Boys and Patriot Front no longer operate on the fringes. Their ideologies—steeped in white supremacy and mythic nationalism—have entered mainstream politics, influencing school boards, legislatures, and state governments. Book bans, the erasure of history, and the vilification of immigrants and LGBTQ+ communities are not isolated incidents. They are part of a broader campaign to redefine who belongs in America and who gets to claim its future. With the Brookings Institution projecting that by 2044 white Americans will no longer be the majority, and Pew forecasting that by 2055 Christians will comprise less than half the population, the question looms: are we preparing for a shared future, or trying to retreat into an imagined past?

This is more than a political struggle. It’s a defining moment for the American story—whether we embrace a pluralistic democracy or cling to the myth of a narrowly defined national identity.

History Doesn’t Repeat, But It Rhymes

We’ve been here before. America has always swung between expansion and exclusion, between the promise of equality and the pull of hierarchy.

But history is not destiny. The original Constitution may have been written by white men for white men—but over time, we’ve used it to demand more. The First Amendment gave us the right to protest. The Fourteenth gave us a framework for equality. The Fifteenth and Nineteenth Amendments opened the vote to Black men and women.

Each generation has had to fight to stretch the meaning of “We the People.” Now it’s our turn.

The Question Before Us

So what do we do now, in this moment?

Do we allow this country to be reclaimed by those who long for a whitewashed myth of purity and control?

Or do we continue to press forward toward the richer, messier, more human vision of a multiracial democracy?

I think about that roller-skating rink in Indiana. The simplicity of that moment. The absence of fear. The natural ease of connection of two different people coming together. That’s the America I want.

And let me be clear: none of what I write comes from a place of shame or resentment. I believe in this country and its people. I do. I believe in its potential—because I’ve seen it. I’ve lived in cities where opportunity is real, where people from wildly different backgrounds collaborate, create, and care for each other. I've had the privilege to thrive in places shaped by difference, not sameness.

I can still be proud of my country—and I am. But I can also be proud of, and honest about, my own upbringing. I grew up white, Protestant, and middle class in a place where doors often opened for me before I even knocked. That wasn’t a failure—it was a gift. But it was a gift shaped by systems and histories I didn’t create, but from which I benefited.

Now, as I look more broadly at the land I live on—the histories it holds, the stories it silences—I feel a responsibility. Not to apologize for where I come from, but to expand the circle of opportunity. To help build a version of this country where everyone has the same access to possibility I had. Where inclusion isn’t charity, but justice. Where privilege isn’t hoarded, but shared.

You can be a patriot and still speak honestly about this nation’s flaws. In fact, that’s what true patriotism demands: not blind loyalty, but a determined, eyes-wide-open commitment to keep striving toward something better.

The United States has always been and remains a place of immense possibility. It has always been deeply imperfect - as humans are. And deeply promising - as humans are.

We are still writing this country. And the pen is in our hands.