Freedom Is an Act: A Reflection on America at 250 Years

There are moments in a nation’s life when a single ruling, a single headline, or a single political gesture forces us to stop and ask: What is happening to the country we thought we knew? The Supreme Court’s June 25 decision, affirming the federal government’s broad authority to end Temporary Protected Status (TPS), was one of those moments for me. With that decision, the administration now has the power to strip protections from hundreds of thousands of migrants from Haiti, El Salvador, Sudan, Honduras, Nepal, and more. Even groups whose TPS technically remains in place, like Syrians and Somalians, have watched ICE disproportionately target Black and brown migrants for detention and removal. The ruling landed not as a legal technicality, but as a moral shockwave; a reminder that the rights we assume are secure can be undone with the stroke of a pen.  It forces us to confront the most chilling question of all: If they can do this to them, who is next?

I found myself sitting with a deep unease, not only about the ruling itself but about the broader pattern it represents. I began questioning the role of the Supreme Court, the meaning of justice, and the direction of a country approaching its 250th anniversary. I thought about voting rights being chipped away, diversity and inclusion initiatives being dismantled, and the steady erosion of human rights protections. I thought about the way Black people and people of color have always been asked to carry the weight of this nation’s contradictions and how, despite everything, they continue to rise.

This ruling did not happen in isolation. It sits within a political climate where billionaires can spend hundreds of millions of dollars to influence elections and then see their wealth increase by hundreds of millions more. It raises uncomfortable questions about whose voices matter, whose futures are protected, and whose humanity is negotiable. When the wealthiest individuals can shape the political landscape while vulnerable communities are told their protections are temporary, conditional, or revocable, what does that say about the state of our democracy?

As I reflected, my mind kept returning to history; not the sanitized version, but the lived one. The story of Black people and people of color in this country is not an afterthought; it is the backbone. It is the story of people who were enslaved, segregated, excluded, and yet still built families, communities, schools, churches, businesses, and movements. It is the story of the Great Migration, when millions fled racial terror in the South only to encounter new forms of discrimination in the North and West. It is the story of people who were told they did not belong, yet insisted on belonging anyway.

It is the story of triumph, not because the system was fair, but because people refused to surrender their dignity.

The late John Lewis understood this better than anyone. He reminded us that “Freedom is not a state; it is an act.” Freedom is not something we inherit; it is something we practice. It requires vigilance, courage, and a willingness to confront injustice even when the odds feel insurmountable. He also said, “We all came here in different ships, but now we’re all in the same boat.” That line feels especially urgent today. Because if we are in the same boat, then the holes being drilled into the hull, attacks on rights, on truth, on democratic norms, will eventually sink us all.

Yet it doesn’t feel like we’re rowing together. It feels like the American Dream, once imperfect but at least aspirational, is narrowing into a gated ideal reserved for a select few. It feels like freedom of speech is shrinking, not because laws forbid it, but because fear discourages it. It feels like the press is under scrutiny not for accuracy, but for daring to challenge power. It feels like the country’s moral center is wobbling.

And still, I refuse to believe the story ends here.

Because history also teaches us that every time America has drifted toward injustice, ordinary people have pulled it back. Abolitionists, suffragists, civil rights leaders, immigrants, labor organizers, queer activists: they all understood that progress is fragile, reversible, and never guaranteed. They understood that rights can be won and lost. They understood that silence is complicity and complicity is the enemy of progress.

What troubles me most about this moment is not only the policies being enacted, but the numbness settling in around them; the sense that people are becoming desensitized to cruelty, inequality, and democratic backsliding. There is a sense not that our outrage is gone, but that it has been pushed underground, quieted by fear, by backlash, by the very real risks that come with speaking openly. Yet even when muted, outrage remains the spark that has always driven American progress.

The Supreme Court ruling on protected status is not just about immigration. It is about the soul of the nation. It forces us to ask: Who do we value? Who do we protect? Who do we see as fully human?

Haitian and Syrian migrants are not abstractions. They are families, workers, students, neighbors; people who fled violence, instability, and disaster in search of safety. To treat their presence as a political inconvenience rather than a humanitarian responsibility is to betray the values we claim to uphold, the very values etched at the base of the Statue of Liberty, calling out across generations: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” When we turn away from those seeking refuge, we are not only rejecting people; we are rejecting our own national promise.

As we approach the 250th anniversary of the United States, we should be reflecting on the full truth of our history: the triumphs and the atrocities. We should be expanding rights, not restricting them. Strengthening democracy, not weakening it. Widening the American Dream, not shrinking it.

But reflection alone is not enough. As John Lewis taught us, freedom is an act.  It is something we do.  It is something we defend. It is something we pass on.

We are at a crossroads. One path leads toward fear, exclusion, and the concentration of power in the hands of a few. The other leads toward justice, dignity, and a renewed commitment to the idea that all people, regardless of race, origin, or status, deserve protection and opportunity.

The question is not whether the moment is dark. It is. 

The question is whether we will allow the darkness to define us. Because at 250 years, America’s fate depends on whether we still believe in the work of freedom, and the promise of this nation survives only when we defend it, together.