Nobody lives in the extremes.

For years we’ve been told who we are—from our media, our government, our classrooms, our communities, from the American zeitgeist that convinced us the world was ours by birthright. We’ve also been told who we are not—from other governments, our neighbors, our European forebears, our critics, from the collective voices of everyone else passing judgment from the cheap seats. After hearing both stories for decades, it’s difficult to know which parts are true. To separate the good from the bad. The lies from the truth.

Because really, what is truth? 

Is America a land of abundance? Very much. Is it a land of waste? Absolutely.

Are Americans certain in our beliefs? Most definitely. Are we loud and boorish? Unfortunately, often.

Are we compassionate? Every day. Are we cruel? Every day.

Are we humble? Sometimes. Are we arrogant? God, yes.

Are we the promise? Or are we the contradiction? The dream? Or the warning?

The uncomfortable answer is that we are all of it. In recent years, our flaws have monopolized the conversation, so much so that I all but stopped defending my country against all, even unfair, criticism. I’m embarrassed, angry, despondent. 

I find myself descending into a kind of impotent despair when I spend too much time online. More and more, I dread the thing I used to take pleasure in, wasting a few hours on YouTube, Instagram, TikTok. I can’t do that now. It’s no longer fun; it can’t be.

Because the death toll inside ICE detention keeps climbing. The National Guard rolled into American cities against the governors’ wishes. The Department of Homeland Security has proposed shipping US citizens to a foreign prison. Birthright citizenship has been put on the chopping block by executive order. Peaceful protesters are gunned down by a government-sanctioned—let’s call it what it is—militia. 

We are funding a genocide.

Enumerating every offense, embarrassment, betrayal, and assault perpetrated by my government and many of our citizens serves little purpose. We know our sins. So do you. 

Which is why I was anxious when I learned we would be hosting the 2026 World Cup. So much could go wrong. More than overbooked lodging or culture clashes. There were other, graver fears: ICE officers abusing visitors, ugly or violent behavior (ours, not yours), the ignorant insults and social blunders of a self-righteous people.

But then you came, by the thousands. And the energy changed. 

I’m a little embarrassed to admit I teared up more than once watching video after video on TikTok of international football fans surprised, astonished, charmed by the very Americana that makes us a caricature: free refills, Costco, fast food culture, air conditioning, a flag everywhere and on everything, yellow school buses, Southern hospitality, the magic that is ranch dressing, the sheer size of it all. It’s difficult to describe the isolation and embarrassment of being the world’s pariah and completely understanding why we are so. We get it. Nobody cringes harder than Americans every time the United States shows up to something uninvited, imposes our culture someplace that’s already got its own, and polices everybody else’s affairs. Insist that we can do it better than anyone else can.

And then there are our more serious crimes. Crimes against humanity that no redemptive arc can span. My name is on those crimes. My name. 

I read about Alligator Alcatraz and children, dead in custody. I see the videos of a Gaza that’s been obliterated, the rubble and destruction greater than in any war-torn city I’ve seen in history books. I bear witness to it all, and I feel like I might throw up. I never voted for this. I don’t want this.

So when I learned that we were hosting the World Cup this year, I was resigned to the fact that we were going to have another stain on our image. Americans don’t revere football the way you do. I envisioned visa denials en masse, ICE in riot gear, drunken violence. World Cup 2026 was bound to go down in history as the year FIFA made the biggest mistake in football history. 

But then you came, from all over. And you brought your joy. 

I will remember until the day I die the Tartan Army belting out “Take Me Home, Country Roads” at a Red Sox game. That was in Boston. And nowhere near West Virginia. 

A German man’s childhood delight as he experienced Taco Bell, Waffle House, and NCAA stadiums.

Police officers playing keepie-uppies in the streets surrounded by throngs of football fans.

A Japanese man’s excited confession, “I don’t speak English— but… I’M EXCITED!”

A British couple nearly speechless after experiencing Southern hospitality in a small-town diner.

A Frenchman’s delighted confusion after being greeted on the street by a stranger.

Throngs of Vikings in Times Square about to launch a longship.

These and hundreds of stories litter social media, crowding out reports of what I have now been trained to expect—shootings, war, criminal pardons, innocent detentions, presidential irrationality, congressional turmoil, human rights violations, corruption—providing Americans a brief respite from the shame of it all. My response to this barrage of celebration and acceptance, not just of America and Americans but of all cultures and countries has been visceral. I’m not alone. Spend an hour on TikTok; you’ll see what I mean. 

The joy will linger, at least for a while. It will resurface when someone reposts a memory from World Cup 2026. It will be kept alive through the many new friends we gained and memories we made. A fragile thread connecting us to a world that suddenly grew both larger and more intimate. And we get to keep that. 

In about a week, the World Cup will end. You all will leave. And I guess—I guess we will return to our respective corners. The United States will remain under indictment. ICE agents are still separating families. The Supreme Court is still eroding our human rights. 

We are still committing war crimes.

Pax vobiscum,

Jennifer L. Wyman, New York