This is my love letter to the U.S.
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- March 9, 2025
- 823
I’ve often heard it said you’ll never know it’s the last time you do something — the last time you read your child a story, hug your mom, take a road trip across the country, talk to your brother on the phone.
One day you’re in the midst of it, and the next day you’re done and you didn’t even know it. I wish I’d known my brother would die before I’d be able to chat with him again. I think about that often.
I read a phrase the other day that said, “The trees you grew up with still remember you.” I felt tears well up and wonder when it was that I swung on the backyard swing my dad built at the house in Berlin for the last time. My transistor radio accompanied me every day of many summers, and those ‘70s hits are seared into my brain. When I hear one, I swing around as if I’m missing something. The canopy of those old trees cradled me as I grew my body and soul.
The roads I’ve traveled on were many. We were a motor home family when I was young, and the roads to New England, Canada and most of the western states also are seared into my brain — The Million Dollar Highway, Mount Rushmore, the White Mountains, Wall Drug, Laura Ingall’s Plum Creek, Deadwood, House of the Seven Gables, Yellowstone, Pikes Peak, Little Big Horn Battlefield, some restaurant in New England I tried clam chowder for the first time and fell in love. I learned a lot at those places. Our country is so vast that seeing its entire grandeur feels impossible.
Mostly, I valued being able to dream of what I wanted to do: fall in love, marry, buy a little house, fill it with things that bring joy, raise kids, write. I’ve been able to do all that because this experiment of democracy held me, cradled me. I never went without, and a warm bed gathered me in at night. I acknowledge this. So many folks in other countries couldn’t dream because the weight of their governance suppressed that.
The ‘80s, where the entirety of my teenage years played out, was where I felt my only jiggle of fear. The Cold War sent us many movies where America was the ultimate victor. Whether it be Rocky fighting the Russian Ivan Drago or seeing paratroopers drop down outside a school in “Red Dawn,” we were taught in no uncertain words who was the victor and who was the enemy. That kept me nonchalant that America could ever fall.
When the nuclear holocaust movie “The Day After” came out, I sat in stunned silence when it ended. If I remember correctly, it played on a Cleveland TV channel, and we were encouraged to watch it with our families. We lived in an age where we knew it could happen but that we were firmly in control of the button — always firmly in control.
Today I’m not so sure of what we’re in control of. My country is a gorgeous, chaotic tangle from coast to coast. Her roads still beckon me, even though not all are welcome. I love her more than I ever did, so I’ll continue to document.
Those in charge come and go, and we have always felt the effects of their rule. But we also knew the U.S. would stand firmly within her lines. I’m not so sure of that today because what she taught me long ago no longer stands. And I can’t help but think about the things I still want to do — or if I’ve done them for the very last time. That America is taking her last breath, with her finger off the button, and we don’t even know it.
Melissa Herrera is a reflective writer who captures the beauty and sorrow of change. With a career spanning 14 years as an opinion columnist and the publication of two books, she resides in Stark County with her husband and four cats. She writes to preserve memories. You can reach her at junkbabe68@gmail.com.