What Makes Us Great

Like many of my ramblings this time of year, I am drafting this in a hotel room miles from home. Spring break gave our family an opportunity to drive to a corner of the country many of us had yet to explore – New York, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island. Along with giant waterfalls and busy city sidewalks, we aimed to walk our kids through a bit of American history, as well, but I underestimated how much our history would speak to me of our present, how far we have come and how far we have yet to go.

As I sit here now, we are halfway through this East Coast adventure, and what stands out above all else is how vast and varied our nation is. The way each of us experiences this country differs wildly based on the plot of land we are born to, the family and culture to which we belong, and all those constantly moving parts that mold us as we grow. When I travel these separate yet united states, it often feels like I am visiting new and different countries all tangled up together in a glistening web of dreams and disappointment.

Yet still, we go and see, and as we see, we eat. One benefit of this melting pot in which we reside is the brilliant array of foods we get to sample. Always hungry kids in tow, we make time to delight in the tastes of America. Over the past five days, we have devoured chicken wings from Buffalo’s famous first recipe, Taiwanese Boba Tea, juicy mango from a Latina street vendor, homemade gnocchi and pistachio-crusted cannoli from Boston’s North End, mile-high lobster rolls and Boston cream pie. And in between meals, we walked and walked and walked.

On these walks, we took in the diverse landscapes and stories of this place. We felt the power of the mighty Niagara beating and blending billions of gallons of water flowing from our Great Lakes, we walked the edge of deep gorges carved through the rural New York woodlands, then watched artisans blow molten glass into delicate fluted bowls. Once in Massachusetts, we experienced a reenactment of the Tea Party that sparked a revolution, boarded Old Ironsides to explore her centuries old hull, and followed the inlaid bricks of the Freedom Trail across a New England town our children came to favor above all others by the close of a single day. And in every place we visited, we encountered people from all over the world, exploring right beside us, some who call America home and others who have scrimped and saved for just the chance to visit, to see this country where the multitudes become one.

Along our journey, we walked the settlers’ burial grounds, noting the gravestones of America’s recognized founders, men whose words call out to us still, asking to be heard for all they could bring to this present day. We saw plaques dedicated to the people who walked this land before us – the forgotten Indigenous caretakers of this place who predate all of the “firsts” memorialized in bronze upon our streets and public spaces; the enslaved Africans who built white wealth then risked their lives along the Underground Railroad for freedom in the North, finding new forms of oppression instead; and the Irish immigrants who escaped the British forced famine on their own shores for a chance on ours, only to be met with prejudice and disdain.

We stood in the middle of a Holocaust memorial, countless numbers etched into glass columns to remember Jewish souls lost to orchestrated hate. We felt the steam rising up through the grates of the memorial, signifying the gas one group of people used to murder millions of another – all those forgotten people now remembered as we, in this very moment, actively forget new groups of people who we will, inevitably, someday find the humanity to remember in these same significant yet empty ways.

Directly across the street from this memorial, stood a simple playground where dozens of families gathered to enjoy the sunshine of an early April day. We paused to let our boys play. As I sat at the edge of the gathering space, watching families of all types, sizes, ages, and cultures, I heard the melody of languages blend, creating a buzz in the warm air of the afternoon. “When our country gets it right, it really gets it right,” I thought to myself. What a truly beautiful thing we are, what a promise we fulfill when we show up together in the shared space of one American city.

In communities throughout this nation, people from down the street and across the globe gather to soak in the sunshine, to chase toddling children up too-big steps, to remind older brothers to be careful with younger ones, to meet up with long-lost friends or make new ones. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow!” my youngest shouts to his playmate, their fresh friendship but minutes old, neither of them realizing we will be sleeping in the next state by the end of the night. “Okay!” his buddy replies, smile wide open as he waves good-bye. Their brief interaction reminded me of my own conversation the day prior. While waiting to board a bus, I chatted with a Swiss woman about many things, including the size and scope of this country. “I always think how huge America is when I visit. You have many countries all in one,” she had said.

As we pulled into our next stop, I recalled the woman’s words. With its seaside charm and affluence, Newport, Rhode Island felt sadly familiar. It seemed an insular place, boasting gloriously landscaped homes overlooking an expanse of water and waves. Its marinas were separated into those reserved for the elite summer crowd with others seemingly relegated to fisherman, lifelong sailors, and locals. It felt to me like two cities in one, two countries even – a haven for those looking to escape, and the year-round community who keeps it running while they are away.

Mansion after mansion, landscaping crews carefully tended the gardens of homes still deserted in this early season. I wondered how many months of the year these sprawling estates sat empty while residents in this community hunted for affordable housing. On the drive back to our hotel, we passed a playground with bright new equipment and no one in sight. Did the magic of our previous day ever spark to life at this park? Did families of all means and cultures ever gather to chase their children or make new friends, however fleeting?

Driving by that empty park lined with historic showcase homes, I wondered – on some afternoon when the sun hangs high and the hope of spring bursts from the buds of surrounding trees, do the multitudes ever converge to remind one another how Earth-shakingly beautiful we are when we show up together, when we realize that what makes us different is, and has always been, what makes us great? Staring out the window at this particular park, in this particular place so far from home and so painfully close, I wanted it to be true, but I just couldn’t picture it.