The Forgotten Lessons of The Great American Melting Pot
- Nathaniel Hope
- Mar 10
- 32 min read
Updated: Mar 11
On May 1, 1976, Schoolhouse Rock!, an American animated series of musical educational short films, debuted "The Great American Melting Pot." This song aimed to teach kids about the "Democratic recipe" that built America. I remember watching this as a kid and discussing it in my junior year history class. The "Great American Melting Pot," or "melting pot" in general, is a metaphor for a society where diverse people blend together as one. Some say that the melting pot encourages people of all races and religions to believe that anything is possible in America. Others say that America is built on the foundations of immigration, and that embracing one's cultural background and learning from it, is what makes someone American. With Schoolhouse Rock, their animated short was concise and straightforward in the execution of this premise: Immigrants from different cultures and ethnicities are what make up the United States of America. When we all come together, we create a rich and diverse nation. This episode had a significant impact on me growing up, helping me understand the basic simple fact that we are all the same—we are all human beings, united together. Check out the lyrics of the song.
Now, reading the lyrics is one thing. Hearing the song is something else entirely. You should give it a listen. It's quite catchy.
As you can see, with its jaunty musical number and accompanying images, it's easy for anyone, even kids, to understand that all of us, working together, is what makes this country. And through our diversity is what makes this country great.
While this episode was debuted back in 1976, the term "Great American Melting Pot" originated in the United States around the 1780s to describe the merging of European, Asian, and African cultures into a new American identity. The term started to gain popularity after being used in Israel Zangwill's 1908 play "The Melting Pot". Zangwill wrote, "America is God's Crucible, the great Melting-Pot where all the races of Europe are melting and reforming... Germans and Frenchmen, Irishmen and Englishmen, Jews and Russians – into the Crucible with you all! God is making the American." Zangwill was a Jewish refugee who immigrated to the United States to escape ethnic cleansing in Russia. And like Zangwill, thousands of people throughout history have shared a similar story—stories of individuals fleeing their home countries to escape famine, disease, religious persecution, ethnic cleansing, and more. For generations, the United States has been a refuge, a place where those seeking safety and a second chance could rebuild their lives. It became a beacon of hope, not just as a place to survive, but to truly live. It was often called The Land of Opportunity—a nation where hard work and determination could lead to something better. People longed for a future beyond the hardships they left behind, and for many, America was the place where they hoped to find it.
For many immigrants, the first thing they saw upon arriving in New York Harbor was the Statue of Liberty. Standing tall and resolute, this towering monument, inspired by the Roman goddess Libertas, became an icon of America’s promise to welcome the “tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” Emma Lazarus’s famous poem, inscribed at its base, further cemented this promise: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…" My own family’s history is part of this story. While I was born in America, my ancestors came from Finland, Ireland, and Germany. They sought the same opportunities so many others had—a chance for a better life. They, like millions of others, helped shape this country into what it is today.
But somewhere along the way, America lost sight of this.
The American Dream - But For Who?
The United States was founded on the principle that everyone should have the chance to pursue life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. The American Dream was supposed to be a shared vision, a unifying force that transcended divisions. But history has repeatedly shown that achieving this dream is not so simple. We’ve seen discrimination, exclusion, and violence used to deny people access to that dream. For many, it has remained just out of reach, held back by systemic inequality and deeply rooted prejudice. Redlining, for example, was a policy that banks and real estate companies used to keep Black families and other minorities from buying homes in certain neighborhoods. It made it nearly impossible for them to get loans or mortgages, forcing them into poorer areas with fewer jobs, schools, and resources. This unfair practice kept generations of Black Americans from building wealth through homeownership, something that many white families were able to do. The effects of redlining are still felt today, with many minority communities continuing to struggle financially because they were denied the same opportunities for success.
Women, too, were long denied full participation in American society. The fight for women’s suffrage was met with resistance at every turn. Even after the 19th Amendment gave women the right to vote in 1920, many women of color—especially Black, Latina, and Indigenous women—were still blocked from voting. Jim Crow laws, unfair literacy tests, and other voter suppression tactics made it nearly impossible for them to cast their ballots, keeping them from having a real voice in elections. Beyond voting rights, economic inequality has kept the American Dream out of reach for many women. For decades, women were shut out of higher education, barred from obtaining credit cards or loans without a male cosigner, and systematically paid less than their male counterparts for the same work—a problem that still exists today. Back when the New Deal was introduced, it gave workers a lot of new rights and protections—things like fair wages and better working conditions. But not everyone got those benefits. Jobs like farm work and domestic labor, which were mostly done by women and people of color, were left out on purpose. That meant they didn’t get the same protections as other workers, making it even harder for them—especially women of color—to earn fair wages, save money, and build a better future for their families.
Latino communities have also faced deep systemic barriers. Throughout the 20th century, many Latino workers—especially those in agriculture—were exploited through programs like the Bracero Program, which brought Mexican laborers into the U.S. under harsh conditions, often with little to no labor protections. Latino children were subjected to school segregation policies, such as those challenged in Mendez v. Westminster in 1947, a case that predated Brown v. Board of Education and helped end segregation in California schools. Even after these legal victories, Latinos have continued to face discrimination in education, housing, and employment. The language barrier has been weaponized to exclude Spanish-speaking communities from opportunities, with “English-only” policies and rhetoric used to justify economic and political exclusion. Meanwhile, immigration policies have often been shaped by racial bias, with Latino immigrants frequently scapegoated as threats to jobs and safety, despite their essential contributions to the economy. The recent targeting of DACA recipients and mass deportations have only reinforced barriers for Latino families striving for a better life.
From racial segregation and voter suppression to gender inequality and the exploitation of immigrant labor, America has repeatedly fallen short of its promise of equal opportunity. While progress has been made, the echoes of these injustices continue to shape the country today, proving that the fight for true equality—and the right to pursue the American Dream—is far from over. Time and time again, we have failed to live up to the ideals we, as Americans, proudly proclaim. Despite singing The Star-Spangled Banner every year, many seem to have forgotten what it truly means—freedom for everyone, not just a select few.
Stronger Together: When America Chose Progress Over Prejudice
There were times when it felt like we, as a people, believed in striving for something better together. We've always had our problems throughout history, sure. But even through the turmoil, history shows us moments when we overcame our prejudices—when the human race proved that we could be better. We believed in lifting each other up, not tearing each other down. We believed that our differences made us stronger—that diversity was something to celebrate, not fear.
We saw this when the civil rights movement reshaped America. Black and white activists marched together, protested together, and risked their lives together to dismantle segregation and fight for equality. The Montgomery Bus Boycott, the Freedom Rides, and the Selma-to-Montgomery march weren’t just acts of defiance—they were testaments to what could be accomplished when people from all walks of life united against injustice. The Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 weren’t just victories for Black Americans; they were victories for all Americans who believed in a more just and fair society.
We saw it again after the tragic events of September 11, 2001. In the wake of the deadliest terrorist attack on U.S. soil, the country was shaken to its core. But in those moments of grief, there was also a sense of unity. People from every background—regardless of race, religion, or political affiliation—came together to support one another. First responders rushed toward danger to save lives. Volunteers donated blood, supplies, and money to help those affected. Communities rallied around the families of victims, and for a brief moment, there was no left or right, no red or blue—just Americans standing together in the face of tragedy. And we saw it with the legalization of same-sex marriage in 2015. For decades, LGBTQ+ Americans had been fighting for their right to marry the person they love, and their allies stood beside them in that fight. When the Supreme Court ruled in Obergefell v. Hodges that same-sex marriage was a constitutional right, it was a victory for love, for equality, and for the idea that America could indeed live up to its promise of freedom for all. It was a moment where people set aside their differences and recognized the humanity in each other, proving that change is possible when enough people stand together for what’s right.
These moments don’t erase the pain of our past, nor do they mean that discrimination, hatred, and division have disappeared. But they serve as proof that we can be better. That when we choose to lift each other up instead of tearing each other down, we do move forward. We do create a more just world. And if we’ve done it before, then we can do it again.
Which brings us to today. Somewhere along the way, that belief in a better tomorrow—where we come together despite our differences—has fractured. The sense of unity that once carried us through the hardest times feels more distant than ever. Division is more rampant than ever, with people being labeled, judged, and vilified simply for existing. Hatred isn't lurking in the shadows—it is front and center, broadcast on every news channel, plastered across newspapers, and amplified endlessly on the internet. Misinformation spreads like wildfire, poisoning minds and fueling rage, as lies are packaged as truth and circulated on social media with the ease of a virus. In fact, 91% of Americans believe that the spread of misinformation is worsening extreme political views and contributing to dangerous behaviors. This is not just theoretical—hate crimes have surged, occurring nearly every hour in the U.S. Many of these attacks are fueled by hateful messages online and lies that twist reality, making people see enemies where there are none. People are hurting each other in ways that once seemed unimaginable. Some are dying because of racial injustice, others are being displaced by gentrification and greed, and still more are suffering under policies designed to protect the powerful rather than the vulnerable.
Laws meant to serve and safeguard the people are either being stripped away or outright ignored. When laws are broken, justice is supposed to follow. But too often, those in power face no consequences. Accountability has become an afterthought, reserved only for those without wealth, influence, or privilege. And so, people watch. They scroll past the headlines, shaking their heads in disbelief. They witness suffering, injustice, and corruption but remain silent—either out of fear, exhaustion, or a belief that nothing can change. It is as if we have become bystanders to our own decline, paralyzed by the weight of the world and waiting for someone else to fix it. Many want to be saved, but too few are willing to stand up and fight for what is right. It’s heartbreaking to witness. And it makes me wonder—what happened? How did we get here? When did we stop believing that a better world was possible? And more importantly, how do we find a way to move forward towards a better tomorrow?
Breaking My Silence - Daring To Say Something
For most of my life, I kept my thoughts to myself, especially when it came to politics and the state of the world. Not because I was ashamed of what I believed, but because I learned early on how quickly conversations could spiral into arguments. Any time I tried to join the discussion, I was met with hostility and dismissal. How dare I have an opinion? How dare I have a different opinion? It was disheartening. So, I did what always felt safest—I stayed quiet. I nodded along, changed the subject, and steered clear of controversy, all in the name of keeping the peace. And for a long time, that was just how it was. But something changed. As the world grew more chaotic, I felt something stir inside me—something I could no longer ignore. It started about five years ago, at the height of the pandemic, when everything felt like it was unraveling at once. And then, in May 2020, the unthinkable happened. The moment that shattered me, that broke something deep inside, was the day I saw the video of George Floyd’s death.
My heart broke as tears streamed down my face while I watched a Minneapolis police officer kneeling on his neck. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. People just stood there, watching, doing nothing. George Floyd—a 46-year-old father of five and grandfather of two—was pinned to the ground, crushed beneath the weight of someone sworn to serve and protect. I kept asking myself, Why? Why did this happen? How could people just stand there and watch? Even the other officers on the scene did nothing. It was absolutely horrifying. But the horror didn’t stop there—it was only the beginning. After Floyd’s death, some people attempted to justify what happened, arguing that he had a criminal record, that he had made bad choices, as if that somehow excused his murder. But it doesn’t. What I witnessed in that footage wasn’t right. George Floyd wasn’t just a man with a record—he was a human being. He had played college football and basketball, worked as a truck driver and security guard, and was known to family and friends as a “Gentle Giant”. On May 25, 2020, Minneapolis police officers arrested Floyd for allegedly using a counterfeit $20 bill. Seventeen minutes after the first squad car arrived, he lay motionless on the ground, handcuffed and unresponsive.
One of the most chilling moments in that video—one that haunts me to this day—was when George cried out for his mother. Anyone who cries out to their mother knows the depth of that kind of pain. It’s not just a cry for help; it’s a desperate call from the soul, a plea for comfort when nothing else feels possible. We all know how the story ends. The officer kept his knee on George’s neck for 8 minutes and 46 seconds, ignoring his repeated pleas that he couldn’t breathe. The official autopsy ruled his death a homicide. All four officers were fired, and one was convicted of second and third-degree murder and manslaughter, while the others were charged with aiding and abetting.
What shocked me almost as much as George Floyd’s death was the sheer number of people who tried to justify it. Even worse was the way so many openly mocked him—and anyone who dared to mourn him. I saw countless comments, vile racist memes, and even horrifying “TikTok Challenges” where people reenacted his final moments as if his death were some kind of joke. They treated his murder like a punchline, as if his life had no value. They clung to his past mistakes, using his criminal record to dehumanize him, as if that somehow excused the brutality he suffered. It was heartbreaking. It was enraging.
And above all, it was sickening to witness.
Yes, George Floyd had a record. Between 1997 and 2005, he faced several arrests in Texas for drug possession and theft. In 2007, he was charged with aggravated robbery, and in 2009, he accepted a plea deal that sentenced him to five years in prison. He was paroled in 2013. On the surface, sure, that seems bad. But it only tells part of the story. No one ever seems to stop and ask, why? Why do so many people like Floyd end up in these situations? Why are Black men in America targeted by the criminal justice system far more often than others? Why is it easier for society to dismiss a man’s life because of past mistakes rather than acknowledge the systemic racism that made his life infinitely harder?
These are uncomfortable questions, but they need to be asked. Why? Because we like to pretend these problems don’t exist—when they do, and they have for a long time. Systemic racism shaped Floyd’s life, just as it has shaped the lives of so many others who never got a second chance. Black Americans are more likely to be arrested, receive harsher sentences, and face unjust treatment by police—often for the same crimes committed by white individuals.
But despite the struggles he faced, Floyd was trying the best he could. He moved to Minneapolis for a fresh start. He worked security, drove trucks, and spent time mentoring young men in his community, warning them about the dangers of street violence. He was a father, a friend, a man trying to make his way in the world, just like so many of us. He wasn’t a political leader. He wasn’t some symbol of perfection. He was just a person. But instead of being able to continue his life, he became another statistic, another name on a list of those needlessly killed. And that’s the real issue. The fact that he had a record isn’t the point. The fact that anyone—felon or not—was treated that way is the point. Police officers are supposed to serve and protect, not violate civil rights and murder someone in cold blood. No one deserves to die like that. No one deserves to have their life reduced to a joke, a meme, or a number on a statistic sheet. But this is the world we live in—a world where cruelty is justified, where the humanity of others is dismissed with a shrug or a headline. Somewhere along the way, we stopped seeing each other as human beings. We let fear, prejudice, and indifference erode the most basic of values—compassion, humility, empathy, and love. Instead of lifting each other up, we have grown comfortable with looking away, convincing ourselves that someone else’s suffering isn’t our concern. But it should be. Because the moment we stop caring, the moment we stop seeing, is the moment we lose our own humanity, too.
George Floyd’s death was one of the most heartbreaking things I have ever witnessed. But the painful truth is that he was not the first, nor was he the last. His name joins a long and tragic list of others who have needlessly died at the hands of those sworn to serve and protect—Breonna Taylor, a 26-year-old EMT shot and killed in her own home during a botched police raid; Tamir Rice, a 12-year-old boy gunned down by police for playing with a toy gun; Philando Castile, a beloved school cafeteria worker shot during a traffic stop despite complying with officers; Eric Garner, whose desperate plea of "I can’t breathe" was ignored as he was placed in a fatal chokehold; and Elijah McClain, a gentle young man who was forcefully restrained and injected with ketamine simply for appearing ‘suspicious.’ Their stories, like Floyd’s, are not isolated incidents. They are part of a horrifying pattern, a cycle of injustice that continues to claim lives. Each name is a reminder of how far we still have to go.
A Downward Spiral
In the years following George Floyd’s death, it has felt like the world is in a constant state of chaos. Every time I think things can’t get more overwhelming, they do. The COVID-19 pandemic, for example, changed everything—forcing people into isolation, crushing businesses, and exposing just how broken our systems really are. The virus itself was devastating, but the response—or complete lack of one—only made things worse. Instead of unity, we got division. Instead of collective healing, we got conspiracies, fear, and a country that couldn’t even agree on basic facts. Debates over masks and vaccines turned into screaming matches. Friendships dissolved. Families stopped speaking to each other. The pandemic didn’t just take lives—it shattered the illusion of stability, revealing just how fragile society really is.
Getting through 2020 was one of the hardest experiences of my life. It changed me. Just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get worse, I watched history unfold on January 6, 2021.
I still remember sitting in front of my screen, horrified, as rioters stormed the U.S. Capitol, waving flags and smashing windows, trying to overturn the results of a democratic election. It felt surreal—like watching something ripped straight from the pages of a history book, except it was happening in real-time. I never imagined I’d see something like that in America, but there it was. People who claimed to love this country were actively trying to dismantle it, all because they refused to accept reality. And the man at the center of it all—Donald Trump—faced almost no consequences. Instead, his influence only seemed to grow. So much so that, four years after Joe Biden spent his presidency trying to clean up the mess left behind in the wake of The Pandemic, Trump was re-elected. We’re already months into his second presidency, and I still don’t know how to process it. I thought we had moved past him, that the country had learned something from his first term. But it turns out, we haven’t.
It seems like so many people were consumed by the 2024 election that they completely overlooked one of Trump’s greatest failures as president: The Pandemic. In 2018, when John Bolton became Trump’s national security adviser, one of his first moves was to disband the White House National Security Council’s Directorate for Global Health Security and Biodefense. This was a program established by President Barack Obama after the 2014-2016 Ebola outbreak to ensure that the U.S. would be better prepared for future pandemics. Had it remained in place, it could have helped provide a coordinated, effective response to COVID-19. But under Trump’s leadership, it was dismantled. And when the pandemic hit, Trump's administration didn’t just fail to act—they actively undermined the U.S. response for political purposes. Instead of taking COVID-19 seriously, Trump dismissed it, claiming it would "disappear like a miracle," even as cases skyrocketed. He ignored scientists, attacked public health officials, and encouraged reckless behavior, all while the virus spread out of control. Even after months of failure, even as hospitals overflowed and makeshift morgues were filled with bodies, he refused to take responsibility. Under his leadership, the U.S. experienced the worst COVID outbreak in the world, with nearly 650,000 American lives lost in just the first year.
But he didn’t just mishandle the pandemic—he made it worse. He downplayed the severity of the virus, ridiculed health experts, and kept the country open when stricter measures could have saved lives. He mocked basic precautions, calling the virus “Kung Flu,” fueling a surge in hate crimes against the Asian community, a level of racial scapegoating we hadn’t seen so blatantly since the post-9/11 attacks against Muslims. I can accept that Trump is many things—corrupt, hateful, narcissistic. But when lives are lost and people are put in danger because of willful recklessness and an inflated ego, that’s where I draw the line. Trump doesn’t just enable hate—he cultivates it. His rhetoric inspires violence, his recklessness endangers lives, and his narcissism ensures that he never feels remorse, never takes responsibility, and never acknowledges the pain and destruction left in his wake. He doesn’t care about the lives lost, the families shattered, or the suffering of everyday Americans. And yet, despite all of this, people still defend him. That is what I will never understand.
And here we are again. Trump is back in the White House, wreaking havoc with only a few months in. In his first month back in office, President Trump has signed a series of executive orders that have drastically reshaped the federal government and its policies. Not only that, but his re-election sparked immediate protests across the country, with people terrified of what other things his return to power will ultimately destroy. Even some of his former allies have distanced themselves, warning of his authoritarian tendencies, his admiration for dictators, and his willingness to put his own interests above the country’s. And all of this is happening while the country is still crumbling under the weight of its own problems. Racial injustice hasn’t gone away—if anything, it has become more blatant. The Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, stripping away reproductive rights that had been protected for nearly 50 years. Climate disasters are getting worse—wildfires, hurricanes, record-breaking heat waves—yet our leaders continue to downplay the crisis. Misinformation is everywhere, poisoning minds, fueling hate, and making it nearly impossible to separate truth from propaganda. Watching what’s happening in this country is devastating—it feels like a slow unraveling, a fracture widening with each passing day. It weighs on me in ways I can’t ignore. It weighs on me so much that I’m here, right now, opening up my mind and heart, speaking out against all the terrible things I see. I can’t stay silent anymore. Not when I see how dangerous our divisions have become. Not when I watch basic human decency become a partisan issue. Not when it feels like we’re losing sight of what truly matters. The more I pay attention to the world, the more the weight of it presses down on me.
When I was younger, it was easier to ignore the world’s problems. The world seemed too big, too complicated, too scary to fully understand. It was easier to focus on what was right in front of me—friends, school, video games, movies, you name it. But as I grew older, something shifted. You begin to see the world for what it is, not just what it promises to be. Suddenly, the world isn’t so distant anymore. Its problems are harder to ignore. You see the injustice, the pain, the inequality—and you realize that it does affect you, whether directly or indirectly. You start noticing the people left behind. You notice how often history repeats itself. You notice the patterns—the same struggles, the same cries for justice, the same desperate hope that this time, maybe this time, things will change. The weight of it becomes too much to ignore. I’ve seen friends who still choose to look away, and honestly, I understand why. The world can feel like a dark, relentless place. It’s overwhelming. Who wouldn’t want to retreat from that? Sometimes I wish I could, too. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? When we all retreat, nothing gets better. When no one stands up, the darkness only grows. It starts to feel like the bad guys always win. But history tells a different story. When people care—when they refuse to stay silent—change happens.
The Power of People to Change the World
History is full of moments when ordinary people stood up and made an extraordinary difference. The civil rights movement wasn’t driven by politicians or powerful institutions—it was driven by everyday people who were tired of being treated as less than human. Rosa Parks wasn’t a political leader—she was a seamstress who simply refused to give up her seat. The people who marched in Selma, who sat at segregated lunch counters, who risked their lives for voting rights—they were just people. But their courage changed the world. The fight for women’s suffrage followed the same path. For decades, women across the country organized, protested, and fought for the right to vote. They were ridiculed, arrested, and dismissed. Yet, because of their persistence, the 19th Amendment became law in 1920. Labor movements in the early 20th century also prove how change is won by the people. When coal miners, factory workers, and even children were being exploited, people rose up. They demanded fair wages, reasonable hours, and safer working conditions—things like the eight-hour workday and child labor laws—protections we often take for granted today.
We still have that power—if we choose to use it.
But the idea of standing up against injustice isn’t just a lesson from history—it’s a lesson from faith. If you’re a person of faith, you’ll find countless examples of this in the Bible—stories of people who faced impossible odds yet still found the strength to stand up for what was right.
Take David and Goliath, for example. David was just a shepherd boy, the youngest in his family, overlooked and underestimated by nearly everyone. Yet, when no one else had the courage to face the giant Goliath, David stood up. Armed with only a slingshot and unwavering faith, he defeated a seemingly unstoppable enemy. His story is a powerful reminder that even the smallest voice can take down the biggest obstacles. Then there’s the story of Esther, a young Jewish woman living in exile, who became queen of Persia. She could have remained silent and safe in the palace, but when her people were threatened, Esther found the courage to risk everything. She used her voice to speak truth to power, saving countless lives in the process. Esther’s story shows us that sometimes, being in the right place at the right time is no accident—sometimes, we are called to act, even when it’s terrifying. And, of course, there’s Moses, one of the most well-known figures in the Bible. Born into a world where his very existence was a threat, Moses grew up in Pharaoh’s court, only to leave it all behind to fight for his people’s freedom. Despite his self-doubt and fear, Moses returned to Egypt and led the Israelites out of slavery. His story is one of perseverance and faith in the face of overwhelming odds, a reminder that leadership often means stepping into the unknown for the sake of something greater than yourself.
And this fight isn’t just in the past. The Black Lives Matter movement, which gained worldwide momentum after the murder of George Floyd in 2020, has mobilized millions to confront systemic racism and police brutality. Through protests, policy advocacy, and global awareness campaigns, the movement has led to police reforms, corporate accountability initiatives, and a broader societal reckoning with racial injustice. The fight for LGBTQ+ rights is another powerful example. For decades, LGBTQ+ individuals and allies fought for equal rights, from the Stonewall Riots of 1969 to the nationwide legalization of same-sex marriage in 2015. Activists like Marsha P. Johnson and Harvey Milk paved the way for greater visibility and acceptance, proving that even in the face of discrimination, change is possible. More recently, the global climate movement has shown the strength of grassroots activism. Figures like Greta Thunberg and groups like Extinction Rebellion have pressured governments and corporations to take climate change seriously. Climate strikes, legal actions, and direct action protests have influenced policy changes, corporate sustainability initiatives, and increased awareness about the environmental crisis. These examples remind us that history isn’t shaped solely by those in power—it’s shaped by those who refuse to accept injustice and dare to demand something better.
Faith and history tell the same story: change does not come from those in power—it comes from those who refuse to accept injustice.
We still have that power—if we choose to use it.
Who Belongs in America? The Myth of Exclusivity
But in America, the fight for inclusion has never been easy. Those in power have always found ways to keep certain groups out—using laws, discrimination, and even violence to hold them back. And yet, despite these efforts, America has been shaped by the very people it has tried to shut out. The immigrants, the dreamers, the outsiders—they are the ones who have built, innovated, and fought to make this country what it is today. Which is why I find it so frustrating when I hear phrases like: If you don’t like America, leave.” “Go back to your country.” “You’re in America—speak English.” The irony is inescapable. Unless you are Native American, your ancestors came from somewhere else. America, as we know it today, was built by immigrants—people of all races, ethnicities, and religions. To reject this truth is to reject the very foundation of this country.
Some of the greatest innovators, leaders, and cultural icons in American history were immigrants or the children of immigrants. Albert Einstein, one of the most brilliant scientific minds in history, fled Nazi Germany and reshaped modern physics, helping to lay the groundwork for everything from nuclear energy to space exploration. Sergey Brin, who came to the U.S. as a child from the Soviet Union, co-founded Google, forever changing the way the world accesses and shares information. Katalin Karikó, a Hungarian-born scientist, spent years researching mRNA technology, work that led to the COVID-19 vaccine and saved millions of lives worldwide. These individuals didn’t just contribute to America—they changed the world.
Beyond science and technology, immigrants have revolutionized American business and industry. Levi Strauss, a Bavarian immigrant, created the first pair of blue jeans, unknowingly crafting a symbol of American culture that would span generations. Indra Nooyi, who emigrated from India, became the CEO of PepsiCo and transformed the company into a global powerhouse, proving that leadership and vision transcend borders. Hamdi Ulukaya, a Kurdish refugee from Turkey, took a small yogurt company and turned it into Chobani, one of the most successful food brands in the U.S., while simultaneously creating jobs and advocating for refugees. Their stories are testaments to the opportunities that America promises—opportunities that exist only when we embrace diversity instead of fearing it.
In the arts and entertainment world, immigrants have shaped American culture in ways that are impossible to ignore. Gloria Estefan, who fled Cuba with her family, became one of the most successful Latin music artists of all time, bringing a new sound to mainstream America and paving the way for generations of Latino musicians. Salma Hayek, a Mexican-born actress and producer, not only broke barriers for Latinas in Hollywood but also used her platform to fight for representation and human rights. Trevor Noah, who grew up in apartheid South Africa, became the host of The Daily Show, using humor to tackle race, politics, and the immigrant experience in a way that resonated with millions. Their voices and artistry have shaped what America listens to, watches, and embraces as part of its cultural fabric.
Even in government and activism, immigrants have helped redefine what it means to be American. Madeleine Albright, who arrived in the U.S. as a refugee from Czechoslovakia, became the first woman to serve as Secretary of State, proving that no barrier—including gender or origin—could stop someone from leading the country’s foreign policy. César Chávez, born to a family of Mexican immigrants, dedicated his life to fighting for farmworkers’ rights, ensuring that those who put food on America’s tables were treated with dignity and respect. Ilhan Omar, who came to the U.S. as a Somali refugee, made history as one of the first Muslim women elected to Congress, challenging the very idea of who belongs in American politics. Their presence in positions of power is a direct challenge to the idea that America is meant for only a select few.
And in sports, where competition is fierce and greatness is earned, immigrants have continued to prove their place. Dirk Nowitzki, a towering force from Germany, changed the game of basketball, redefining what a power forward could do. Martina Navratilova, who defected from Czechoslovakia, became one of the greatest tennis players of all time and used her fame to advocate for LGBTQ+ rights. Shohei Ohtani, a Japanese-born baseball phenomenon, has shattered records, proving that talent knows no borders. These athletes not only entertained but also inspired, showing what’s possible when barriers—both physical and political—are broken down.
America was never meant to be a nation of exclusion. It was built by immigrants, sustained by their contributions, and enriched by their diversity. To tell any other story is to erase the truth. Yet today, hostility toward immigrants, people of color, and diverse representation in media and leadership is louder than ever. The very people who make America stronger are the ones most often told they don’t belong. But history tells a different story: not only do they belong, they are the ones who have shaped this nation into what it is.
Yet, despite this undeniable truth, we continue to see hostility toward those who don’t fit a narrow, exclusionary definition of “American.” Immigrants are demonized. Non-English speakers are mocked. The push for diversity, equity, and inclusion is met with resentment and accusations of “forcing an agenda.” The simple idea that America should be a place where all people—regardless of race, gender, or background—have equal opportunities, is met with backlash. This hostility isn’t just about immigration. It extends to the broader fight for equality in all areas of life. People rally against diversity in workplaces, representation in media, and fair treatment in education, all under the false pretense that inclusion somehow diminishes those who have long held power. Instead of embracing the richness that comes from different perspectives, we see fearmongering, misinformation, and outright attempts to erase hard-fought progress.
And one of the clearest examples of this hostility is the way the term “woke” has been hijacked and weaponized. What was once a simple call to stay aware of racial and social injustice has been distorted into an insult, a catch-all phrase used to mock diversity and dismiss conversations about fairness, representation, and human rights. Instead of addressing the real issues at hand, people slap "woke" onto anything they don’t like and use it as a way to dehumanize others.
Take the backlash against Captain America: Brave New World, Marvel’s latest Captain America movie. When Anthony Mackie’s character, Sam Wilson, rightfully took up the mantle of Captain America, some critics scoffed that "Marvel went woke." Not because the story didn’t make sense—Sam Wilson had long been established as Steve Rogers' successor in the comics—but simply because a Black man was now carrying the shield. The backlash wasn’t about storytelling or continuity; it was about resistance to change, particularly when that change meant greater representation.
The same rhetoric followed within the gaming industry. When Alan Wake II was released, a vocal segment of the gaming community falsely accused the developers of being pressured into making the new co-lead character, Saga Anderson, a Black woman, as part of a "forced diversity" agenda. The controversy largely stemmed from Quantum Break (2016), an earlier Remedy Entertainment game, where an in-game easter egg video featured a white female FBI agent. While her name was not given in the video itself, an ID badge in the footage read “Saga Anderson,” and Sam Lake, Remedy’s Creative Director, later confirmed her name in a Twitter post from December 2015. However, this was never a fully developed character—rather, it was a placeholder tied to Remedy’s long-running hints about a possible Alan Wake sequel. At the time, Remedy was still in partnership with Microsoft and had been actively pitching an Alan Wake II prototype. However, Microsoft was looking for a different type of project, leading Remedy to rework their concept into what eventually became Quantum Break. When their partnership ended, Microsoft retained the rights to Quantum Break, while the Alan Wake rights reverted to Remedy in 2019. With full creative control restored, the team was free to develop Alan Wake II without any ties to Quantum Break. This shift in development highlights an important reality in gaming—ideas change over time, concepts evolve, and publishers and partnerships shift, shaping the final product in ways that often differ from early concepts and prototypes.
In a 2023 interview, Sam Lake confirmed that Quantum Break is not officially part of the Remedy Connected Universe (RCU), meaning that its version of Saga Anderson had no narrative connection to Alan Wake II despite the easter egg references to a potential sequel. The Alan Wake II version of Saga was created from the ground up, developed as an entirely new character independent of any past references. Game director Kyle Rowley also addressed the backlash, firmly denying claims that the character’s race was changed due to external pressure. He emphasized that the decision to cast Melanie Liburd was based solely on her talent and how well she embodied the role—not any outside mandate or agenda. Remedy Entertainment, known for its narrative-driven approach, envisioned Alan Wake II with a fresh and diverse cast, ensuring that each character served the story authentically. Yet, despite the game’s critical acclaim, some players latched onto the notion that the game had "gone woke" simply because a woman of color was now in a major role. The outrage wasn’t about storytelling or game design—it was about the perception that diversity itself is an agenda rather than a natural and valid creative choice. The backlash against Saga Anderson mirrors a broader pattern of resistance to representation across media, where any departure from an assumed status quo is met with hostility, even when it aligns with a franchise’s artistic and narrative evolution.
And it’s not just in entertainment. It’s in real life, in everyday conversations, in policies that affect millions. The phrase “Go Woke, Go Broke” suggests that embracing diversity is a financial liability, as if making space for people of different races, genders, and backgrounds somehow weakens a company, a community, or a country. The absurdity of this thinking is absolutely alarming. If simply acknowledging people who are different from you is considered "woke," then what does that say about those who fight against it?
The way people use language to justify hate and exclusion baffles me. I don’t understand why so many are so resistant to the simple fact that we are all human beings. That we all want the same things—safety, opportunity, happiness. America is full of diversity, full of people whose ancestors came from all corners of the world. We live together. We succeed together. We will not survive if we do not help one another. Hate doesn’t have to be blatant to be destructive. It can be disguised as a joke, a snide remark, a seemingly harmless meme. But at its core, it’s still hate. And history has shown us where that road leads.
A Call to Remember Who We Are
For years, we’ve been conditioned to turn on each other, to see our differences as battle lines rather than sources of strength. We fight over race, gender, nationality, religion, and political affiliation, convinced that our greatest threats are the people standing next to us. But while we tear each other down, who benefits? Those in power—the politicians, the billionaires, the corporate elites—thrive when we’re too busy fighting each other to notice what’s happening behind the curtain. They want us distracted. They want us pointing fingers at our neighbors instead of looking up and asking why the wealth gap continues to widen, why working people are struggling to make ends meet while corporations post record profits, why our freedoms are slowly being eroded under the guise of protecting us. It’s a classic tactic—divide and conquer.
Because a divided people are easier to control.
But history has shown us another truth: people have power. When we come together—when we refuse to be manipulated by fear—we are capable of extraordinary change. The greatest shifts in history did not come from those at the top. They came from people who refused to accept injustice. From the Civil Rights Movement to marriage equality, from labor strikes to student protests, the most powerful transformations happened because people chose to stand together instead of being torn apart. We have the ability to demand change, to hold leaders accountable, and to shape the world we live in. But too often, we let that power slip away.
We vote for leaders hoping they’ll make things better, only to watch them betray that trust. Corruption in politics isn’t just something that happens in history books—it happens right in front of us, over and over again. Between 1999 and 2018, over 14,000 public officials were convicted in federal corruption cases, some of them high-ranking leaders who were supposed to be working for the people, not themselves. Please read that again. Over 14,000 officials were convicted in federal corruption cases in a span of nearly a decade. That is insane. Instead of leading with integrity, too many politicians prioritize their careers, their donors, and their own self-interest over the needs of the people they were elected to serve.
And let’s be honest—money runs this country more than the people do. Special interest groups and corporate lobbyists pour billions into elections, making sure that the politicians they bankroll stay in their pockets. Policies meant to benefit everyday Americans get pushed aside in favor of decisions that protect the wealthiest and most powerful. The government is supposed to represent us, but more and more, it feels like we’re just bystanders, watching as those in charge make decisions that benefit only a select few. We’re supposed to be "the land of the free and the home of the brave," but let’s be real—freedom and bravery in this country don’t seem to apply to everyone. The truth is, no one is coming to save us. No politician, no leader, no government is going to fix everything for us. We have to save ourselves. We have to take back the power we’ve been told we don’t have. We have to be the change we want to see in the world. Because if we don’t, then who will?
I know the weight of the world can feel overwhelming. It’s easy to feel powerless in the face of so much injustice. But no movement, no revolution, no transformation in history ever began with the powerful. It always started with ordinary people who were tired of being told they didn’t matter. These stories—both historical and modern—aren’t just tales from the past. They are proof that real change has always started with individuals who saw injustice and chose to act. None of these people were perfect or fearless. Most of them doubted themselves, faced overwhelming odds, and wondered if they could truly make a difference. But they believed in something bigger than themselves, and that singular belief is what made all the difference. You may not think your voice matters, but history proves otherwise. History and faith both show us that even the smallest actions can change the world when we have the courage to take the first step. The civil rights movement wasn’t built in a day. The right for women to vote didn’t happen overnight. Labor movements didn’t succeed because of a single protest. Change is slow and frustrating, but it’s also inevitable when enough people believe in it.
But therein lies the challenge. As a country, as a people, we're currently sitting at crossroads. We can either keep letting those in power pit us against each other, or we can choose a different path. We can choose to remember who we are, what we stand for, and what kind of future we want to build. Because America was never meant to be a nation of exclusion. It was built on the idea that all people—regardless of race, religion, or background—deserve a chance to thrive.
The American Dream—the belief that no matter who you are or where you come from, you can build a better life—has become little more than a marketing slogan. Once, it was a powerful idea. It was the belief that you could rise from nothing, that your children could have a future brighter than your own. For generations, immigrants left everything behind to chase that dream. But somewhere along the way, we forgot that, too. The question now is: Are we willing to remember? That belief may have been imperfect in execution, but it was always the ideal—the vision that millions of people fought to make real. We don’t have to accept the division we’ve been handed. We don’t have to believe the lie that we are powerless. We can choose to push back against hate, to see our differences as strength, to stand up for each other instead of tearing each other down. This country was built on the struggles of those who came before us. It was shaped by people who dared to believe that things could be better. If they could fight for a better future, then so can we. The path forward is up to us.
So, who do we want to be? A nation ruled by fear, hate, and division? Or a nation that finally lives up to the ideals it was founded on? We have fought for that future before. We have bled for it. And in moments of unity, we have even achieved it. But somewhere along the way, we forgot.
It's Time To Remember
We have a choice: We can continue to fear what we do not understand, or we can embrace the strength of our diversity. We can let division tear us apart, or we can come together, remembering what The Great American Melting Pot was meant to represent. "Lovely Lady Liberty, with her book of recipes, and the finest one she’s got, is the Great American Melting Pot."
The world is diverse. Humanity is diverse. And the sooner we accept that we are all one people, the closer we will come to fulfilling the true promise of America.
We still have the power to change the world for the better—if we choose to use it.
Thanks for reading.
Sincerely,
Nathaniel Hope
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