Am I anti-American? I guess so.
I’m anti- the America that exterminated indigenous people while stealing their land, and then made up patronizing stories to make it seem quaint and inevitable and normal.
I’m anti- the America that said women couldn’t vote. And couldn’t work. And couldn’t hold property. And couldn’t have their own credit cards. And couldn’t even have control over what’s happening in their own bodies.
I’m anti- the America that grew tall and strong by drinking the sweat and blood of slaves, and then their children, and then their children’s children, and then… and then… and then…
I’m anti- the America that got scared of people with slanty eyes, and wholesale threw an entire ethnicity into concentration camps during World War II, just in case.
I’m anti- the America that sends every new generation of poor men and women to die and kill in foreign lands full of people who want nothing more than to be left alone.
I’m anti- the America that says it knows so much about you already that it can tell if you’re a man or a woman, and it knows how you should live your life, and what you should wear, and what bathroom you should use, and who you should marry, and whether you should be allowed to have kids or not, and who you are permitted to love.
I’m anti- the America that imprisons and kills people rather than feeding and clothing and educating and employing them, rather than treating their mental and physical illnesses, rather than getting to know who they are as people.
I’m anti- the America that looks at the bullet-riddled bodies of children and disabled people and shrugs, murmuring something about the price of freedom.
So yup, I’m proudly anti-American. But I feel like the people who really need to explain themselves are the people who look at all of that, and then go out and wave a little flag and sing a little song about apple pie and amber waves of grain. Cause if you can do that, then you must be some scary kind of broken.