I was asked today why I hate America. Quite honestly I wasn’t really sure what they were asking me. I mean, I work hard in school, I get good grades, I participate in various activities, I volunteer in my community; as far as I was concerned, I thought I was being a “good American.” Living the dream. Right? Apparently not.

Apparently, not wanting to ban all people from a certain religion from entering this country means I want us all to die. Apparently when I stand up for those with mental disabilities because my cousin killed himself because of his means I support government handouts to “no good low lifes.” Apparently believing that a woman has a right to choose what she does with her body means that I have something against children. Apparently supporting everyone’s right to marry who they choose means that I’m a “bad Christian.” Apparently my opinions are wrong, my opinions don’t matter. No. I refuse. I was raised to believe that everyone’s lives matter. I was raised to believe that you help your neighbor no matter what their race, religion, gender, or sexual orientation. I was raised to believe that education is the key to a successful life. I was raised to believe that no one should be bullied or left alone in life. I was raised to believe that everyone’s opinions matter, even when they are different from yours. Maybe I’m naive. Maybe my parents were nutjobs who raised a terrible daughter who has nothing to contribute to society and should just learn to shut her mouth. But I wasn’t raised to believe that.

I was asked today why I hate America. As if I was mad at the amazing country that I am lucky enough to call home. I’m not mad, I’m just disappointed.