Americans are portrayed as charismatic, ambitious, and proud. But I am not always so proud.
Not when the right to bear arms turns into school shootings, not when school shootings become so abundant we can hardly feign surprise or horror. I am not proud to be an American in history class when I learn of the lies we told and the corners we cut.  I am not proud to be an American when politics interfere with the right to my body and my health, not when Americans cheat other Americans out of a job, and especially not when my parent’s jobs were taken from them.
But if every cloud has a silver lining, then America is a storm.
I was proud to be an American when we rose as the towers fell.
I was proud to be an American at age six, just starting to comprehend how big the world was, and thinking I was lucky to be born in this country out of all the others.
I was proud to be an American in second grade, when I flew to D.C. and I saw the flag that brought truth to the night, locked away like a secret.
I was proud at the Iwo Jima Memorial, the sheen of the stiff rock on their faces glimmering like sweat, and I feeling like I was there in the moment with them. 
I am proud to be an American when my fist thrusts into the air, when the chants around me have turned deafening and still I roar with them, “U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!”
I am proud to be an American during every National Anthem, when members in the stands turn to a choir, their hats lowered. I am proud when the verse of rockets and bombs sends shivers down my legs, reminding me of every man and woman and child who fought for this country and died for it and would do it again.
Those are the moments when I can be proud to be an American.