Has America Lost Its Color? A Reflection on Diversity, Identity, and Hope

I don’t know if it’s just me, but it feels like our country is losing its color—both literally and figuratively. The vibrancy that once defined us, the electric mix of cultures, ideas, and styles, feels like it’s fading. Maybe I’m just nostalgic, a kid of the '90s and 2000s when fashion was bold, food was diverse, and music had a little something for everyone. But I can’t shake the feeling that as we move away from embracing differences—culturally, biologically, ideologically—we’re losing something essential.

Don’t get me wrong, I know those years weren’t perfect. I grew up watching Rodney King’s beating on TV, I remember where I was on 9/11, and my husband lost his job in the crash of 2008—the first year of our marriage. Every era has its struggles. But back then, despite the hardships, it felt like we were at least trying to move forward, trying to be better. Now? Now it feels like we’re pulling back, closing in, making ourselves smaller and more divided.

But what I would like to note is that we had an opportunity to improve and become better. And yet, I feel like I do not belong in this new world order that we are ushering in. It scares me. It activates my fight-or-flight instinct. What do I choose? Knowing myself, I am the person who freezes in shock, trying to regulate my nervous system, with only thoughts of protecting my kids and my spouse—but also your kids. Because I love your kids too. I want your kids to have health care, and art classes in their public neighborhood school. Am I so out of my mind feeling like this; that I don’t belong?

And that’s where my heart gets confused. Because I believe—deeply—that people of consenting age should love who they want, that no one should have control over someone else’s body, that freedom means the ability to live your truth without interference. But then there’s my neighbor. The same neighbor who helped push my car out of the snow when my husband was at work. The one I’ve walked alongside while taking my kids trick-or-treating. The one who flies a Trump flag high and proud.

I want to believe he sees me—sees all of me, my Black ass included—as a human being deserving of respect and freedom. And maybe he does. Maybe, despite everything, he holds kindness in his heart. Or maybe I just need to believe that, because the alternative is too heavy. If I let despair take root, if I sit in the sadness of what we’re losing, won’t I just pass that weight onto my kids? And that’s not what I want for them.

So, I choose to bring the color back. I choose to find the bright spots, to celebrate the eclectic, to write my silly little blogs about friendship and struggles and dreams. Because if positivity is toxic, then so be it—I’d rather be delusional than hopeless. I’d rather fill my space, my citrusy little corner of the internet, with joy and encouragement, in the hopes that maybe—just maybe—it’s contagious.

Because the world may be losing its color, but that doesn’t mean we have to.

With so much love,

Jess Pye