I love you. I have loved you since before I could write my own name in either cursive or print. As a child, I publicly waxed poetic about you. I pledged allegiance to you every morning. I sang songs to and for your honor. Sweet land of liberty, of thee I sing.

America the beautiful. I’m not ashamed to freely admit that I used to call you ‘Erica for short.

For the entirety of my life, no one could speak ill of you in my presence. I wouldn’t tolerate that. Frankly, I couldn’t tolerate that. You may not have been my wife, but I vowed to love, honor, and cherish you – through sickness and health – until death did us part. You may not have been my best friend, but I promised to defend you to the very end – especially when I knew that you were as wrong as five left feet. You may not have been my higher power, but I rejoiced in the fact that you allowed me to worship God every day in my own way. You may not have been my bodyguard, but I usually felt safe with you back in the day. When I believed myself to be fully under your protection, it was as if I was 50 feet tall.

But somewhere, somehow, someday – things changed between us. You changed, then I changed. We changed.

We’re not nearly as close as we used to be. You won’t take my calls. You won’t return my emails. You won’t reply to my text messages. I miss all the good times we once shared. Deep down, I wish you missed me, too. At least a little bit. But we both know that you don’t.

Whenever I read the newspapers, I see so many stories detailing just what you think of me. It’s nearly impossible to describe how unwanted, unneeded, and unloved you make me feel. The word ugly doesn’t begin to cover it. No matter how successful I become, how many degrees I earn, or how much money I make, I’ll never be good enough for you, will I? I’ll never get to meet your parents. I’ll never get to hang out with your closest friends. I’ll never get to be acknowledged – once and for all – as someone you want to settle down with. Grow old with. Build a life with. Leave a legacy with.

You steadfastly refuse to accurately recount African American history. My history. My people’s history. Your memory is dubious at best – and downright sinister at worst. Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? What a cruel joke.

Of thee I sing.

Whenever I watch television, I understand precisely what you think of me and of people like me. You obviously think I’m a clown. You see me as athletic, but never academic. You consider me a donor of genetic material, but not as a doting, fully engaged father. You brand me as a menace to society, but never as a keeper of the peace.

I love you, damn it. I wish I didn’t, but I do. From sea to glaring misery.

Because of you, everyone wants my vote – but no one wants my vote. Everyone tells me I’m special, but only during congressional races and presidential races; then it’s back to your regularly scheduled program already in progress immediately thereafter. Apparently, I’m so special that one major political party (guess which one) actively seeks to make it as impossible for me to exercise my alleged Constitution-protected right to vote on one hand – while publicly accusing me of blatant voter fraud when I don’t vote for them on the other hand. Souls and polls, right? Meanwhile, corporations and vendors want my money – but they don’t want me. They can’t even pretend to value my opinion or my feedback on their goods and services anymore. Because of you, I’ve never had more freedom – while having less freedom at the very same time. There are plenty of places I can go – and plenty of places I cannot go because it’s not safe in this splendid skin. Lots of churches might open their doors to me – but too many of them won’t open their hearts or minds to me. I’m never alone – yet I’m always alone. Every one of those unjust things I’ve been forced to endure were placed upon me in your name, ‘Erica.

I don’t feel like singing anymore.

I still love you. Sometimes I hear our songs and I long for the warmth of your embrace. But if my wishes were fishes, you and I would be dining together tonight at the Atlanta Fish Market in Buckhead – having seafood: your favorite. But they’re not… so we’re not.

You’re never, ever coming back to me, are you?

I know men aren’t supposed to cry, but I’ve cried over you countless times. It’s abundantly clear that you won’t be changing within my lifetime. Therefore, I have to find a way to get over you.

I’m not that brown-eyed, little kid anymore, ‘Erica. Fantasy inevitably gives way to reality. As the streets say: “Grow up, bow up.”

May God shed His grace on you, America. As I ease on, I’ll wish you the best – knowing you can’t reciprocate. I’ll continue praying for you, knowing full well that you won’t be praying for me.

Peace out, ‘Erica. Of thee I sang. Past tense.

By the Reverend Arthur L. Jones, III