As a child, I thought America was the best country on the planet. Today, I still have love for my country. But as I’ve grown and learned more American history—real American history, not the whitewashed sugarcoated stuff—the relationship has grown more complicated.

America was built on land stolen from indigenous people with labor stolen from enslaved Africans. As a descendant of enslaved Africans, I am constantly reminded of the cost of the “American experiment.” Chattel slavery built this country, and my ancestors lives were only as valuable as the work they completed, the output they produced. That original sin is often glossed over; even today politicians claim America is “not a racist country” when it was literally built on the backs of the extremely racial institution of slavery.

I grew up during the 1990s, a decade of innovation and prosperity in America. During my childhood, it seemed like things were on the up and up for the USA. But even then, there were subtle signs that my country of origin wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Unfortunately I experienced racism as young as 4 years old. I was called racial slurs, told to “go back to Africa,” the list goes on and on.

Where I grew up, racism was blatant—confederate flags, segregated churches, an active Klan chapter just a few counties over. But racism would sneak up on you too. I’ll never forget when one of my closest friends—someone I literally called my brother—told me to go pick his cotton. I assumed I misheard him when he said it the first time; surely my “brother” wouldn’t say something like that to me! He repeated himself for emphasis, and I’ve never forgotten how crushed I felt in that moment.

In 1996, the US hosted the summer Olympics in Atlanta. My mother and I were fortunate enough to get tickets—we saw Michael Johnson and his gold shoes set world records in Track & Field! But those Games were marred by tragedy; a bombing took place that sent the country into a panic. Fast forward to September 11, 2001, another tragic day in American history. After both of those incidents, Americans came together in ways that I had never seen before. It felt like we were actually united—not Black or white, gay or straight, but American. When times got tough, we really lived up to the statement “united we stand, divided we fall.”

And still, I haven’t even begun to touch on the ways America has caused conflict and chaos in other parts of the world. It is hard to be proud when I know how much damage my country has caused to people who look just like me.

To me, being patriotic is resolving to do what I can right these wrongs. I can’t change everything, but I can take small steps. I can try to make things right and be the kind of American I can be proud of. Patriotism is recognizing our painful past and vowing to never let it happen again. True patriotism is creating an American that lives up the the ideals set forth hundreds of years ago: one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.