Dear United States,
I know our relationship has been on the rocks lately — well, always. Despite our shortcomings, you are still the one I call home. The past four years have been rough, though not as rough as the beginning. When we met, I was five and you were 225. I fell in love with your purple mountain majesties and your amber waves of grain. We didn’t have the healthiest of relationships at the start. Like when I feared my mom getting pulled over on her way to work would mean the end of us. If you were anyone else, I would’ve left. We overcame that.
I’ll always remember hot dogs and beer on your birthday. And you remember mine. On November 6th, 2012, you gave me Obama’s second term; on November 6th, 2018, you gave me AOC; on November 6th, 2020, you gave me Biden and Harris. We popped champagne in the streets. I shook my ass on the hood of James Franco’s car. For the first time in a long time, there was hope, and it was palpable. We go together like life and liberty.
Granted, you’re not perfect. Neither am I. You still have to make amends for your past. In a way, so do I. I’m trying. We both still have room left to grow. I’ve got big dreams for us. I’ll retire to the New England countryside to write scripts, books, or whatever in a cabin by the lake overlooking a large oak tree. I promise never to take more than I give and you’ll strive for a perfect union, making sure each generation leaves this place better than how they left it. We’ll both work toward perfection, knowing we’ll never achieve it, but there is value in trying.
And they’ll be those that root against us. God knows they’ve tried to break us apart. We don’t have to pay them any mind. Beyond all the shouting and rhetoric, you and I are simple: a boy and his home.