Unrequited Love

Written By: Maria Victoria Almarza

Photographed by Pete Alexopoulos

“To my future Supreme Court Justice: 

Go forth, study the law and change lives for the better.” 

These are the words my sociology and government professor, Stuart Williams, wrote in red ink on the front of my copy of the Constitution. It is a pocket-sized blue book, with “ACLU” written on the bottom left corner. I carry it with me everywhere I go, similar to a heart-shaped locket with a picture in it. Only, my heart does not contain a partner or a family member, much more than that, it contains America.

From a young age I loved America. Born in Miami but raised in Venezuela, my classmates called me la gringa. I brought rice krispies to school, spoke English as well as Spanish, and carried around books about George Washington, the Battle of Gettysburg, Thomas Jefferson, Neil Armstrong and, most obsessively, Amelia Earhart. I read all about American heroes and wished to be one of them too. Back then, I had a committed long-distance relationship with America. When I finally visited Him over the summer and winter breaks, I reveled in His culture and history. For a long time I thought I would earn my place among the heroes by revolutionizing music in America. I would break streaming records, dominate the Grammy’s and become a phenomenon comparable to Taylor Swift. However, as I matured and emerged myself deeper into the artform, I grew to resent the rigidity of its study and the fervent competition. Ambition, to me, does not equal rivalry; the world is wide enough for more than one talented musician although others do not see it that way. Suddenly, I was adrift. My entire identity, erroneously based on my career goals, unraveled, along with my connection to America. I came fully undone, fully isolated myself and stayed in such a state for what felt like eternity. For the first time in my life, I lacked purpose; a black hole for the soul. That is until a class discussion about Burwell v. Hobby Lobby. 

Photographed by Frank McKenna

My utter devotion for America, and my relationship with Him, reawakened when studying its intricacies. Monday and Wednesday afternoon, my class gently placed America under an X-ray machine. Suddenly, I replaced music with podcasts examining the Supreme Court and replaced mindless scrolling with reading. I devoured new and old court arguments, biographies and, most importantly, These Truths by Jill Lepore. Lepore’s nuanced and extensive take on American history, written almost like prose, exacerbated my reinvigorated love for America and gave it new depth. It was no longer a blind or taught emotion, it grew to be an active choice. But all was not well in this relationship. In fact, my love has been and will perpetually be unrequited.

Alien. That is the word used to describe me and individuals like myself. Noem v. Vazquez Perdomo made it clear; looking latino, speaking in Spanish, having a prominent accent and making money doing day labor are all constitutional reasons for ICE to detain people. My existence is probable cause to believe I am a “removable alien” (ICE, 2024). The hatred for latino immigrants and citizens born to non citizens, like myself, although aggravated by the current administration, is not new. Violence against latinos dates back to the Mexican-American War in 1848. At the time, despite America gaining 55% of Mexico’s territory, He treated the very people on the acquired land as second-class citizens. Since then, latinos have faced segregation, mob violence, the forced deportation of citizens and non citizens alike during the Great Depression and other forms of brutality and discrimination. Knowing all of this, naively and perhaps fatally, I choose to stay with America. His words of life and liberty, of the American Dream, are ones I cling unto in times of turmoil, caused by His actions. I see potential in Him, and through Him, potential in me. Consequently, I beg America to love me back. 

Photographed by Nitish Meena

I double and triple text, sending long paragraphs serving as step-by-step instructions on how to see me as a human instead of alien. I transform into Thomas Jefferson and list my grievances, as if America was King George III. Only, I do not break up with America. Instead, I gently ask Him to apologize. All I need is a short address to the nation consisting of a half-hearted apology and a begrudging acceptance that latinos are people, and I am American. As I type, finger to screen, I let myself sob. I look at the books all over my floor and drawers and desk, my notes dissecting America, the pictures on my wall, my blue pocket-sized Constitution, and I mourn the America I constructed as a child and the dreams that came with it. I pray that my fabrication might, someday, come to life and hold my hands together forming one big fist. I clutch unto myself, therefore unto Him, so tightly my short nails make me bleed. I await a reply with time crawling by and against my better judgement, decide to check the chat. 

America leaves me on read.

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References

Blakemore, E. (2025, May 28). The long history of Anti-Latino discrimination in America | HISTORY. HISTORY. https://www.history.com/articles/the-brutal-history-of-anti-latino-discrimination-in-america

Immigration Detainers. (2024, December 3). Ice.gov. https://www.ice.gov/immigration-detainers