The Land of Lies

Perhaps the worst lie we ever told
was that America was the land of opportunity.

That if you came,
if you worked,
if you did your best,
it didn’t matter who you were
or where you came from.
You could be anything.

I wanted to believe that story.
We all did.
It was stitched into every anthem,
every flag in our childhood classrooms,
every promise whispered through TV screens,
that hard work would save us.

A lie told to my father’s calloused hands,
his hours swallowed by factory dust.
A lie told to my mother’s second shift,
her eyes rimmed with fatigue.
A lie told to me,
all while racking up debt in a small apartment.

But maybe that’s where the competition began.
We came in boats,
uninvited and unknowing,
stealing land from those
who offered food, shelter, and language,
that could have taught us
how to live in rhythm with the land.

Instead, we brought blankets of smallpox and scripture,
the love of a God that only felt right
if you were white.
A truth I inherited
in the paleness of my own skin.

We drew lines and called them borders,
built fences and called them safety,
declared mine
and called it divine right.

We told ourselves
it was effort that made us worthy,
but what of those who
were never permitted to try,
shut out by red lines?

All lies we tell to stay comfortable,
afraid that if we loosened our grip,
someone else’s survival
might come at the cost of our comfort.

Never mind that we were meant for community,
not competition.
For tending, not taking.
For listening, not fighting.

Outside, the trees.
They rise from shared soil,
reach together toward the light,
and still leave space
for each other to grow.

They live while they give,
taking only what they need,
rooted in the knowing
that harmony is the truest form of strength.

Maybe that’s what we’ve forgotten?
That the real opportunity
was never in the claiming,
But in the way we create and build
belonging.