Independence and the Illusion of Normal: A Mythic Reclaiming

“I’ll have the normal cheese on the regular bread.”

The woman behind the counter didn’t flinch. She knew exactly what that meant: American cheese. White bread.

Normal. Regular.

It stuck with me. My friend posted about overhearing that order, and someone else replied, “Oh yeah, I’ve heard that too—‘the normal cheese.’” Meaning American. Meaning white. Meaning default.

Let that sink in.

What we call normal—what we reach for without thinking—isn’t just habit. It’s culture. It’s the unspoken rules of belonging. And it’s often a story someone else wrote for us before we ever knew how to spell our names.

White. American. Normal. Regular.

As if anything else—or anyone else—is weird, exotic, other. Suspicious. UnAmerican. Not right.

I remember my own “regular.” I grew up poor in small-town Kansas and Missouri in the 1970s. Our meals often came from cans. The ham was marbled with fat, the bread was pillowy white, and fresh produce was a seasonal treat.

July 4th was special—not just because of fireworks, but because we got fresh corn on the cob and watermelon. A taste explosion eaten with our hands, juices dripping. Summer’s brief permission to enjoy without rationing.

I remember the first time I tasted kiwi in elementary school. It was part of a “cultural awareness” day. The tartness burst in my mouth like something from another planet. I loved it. Most of the other kids wouldn't even try.

That moment stuck in my body. The thrill of trying something new, the disappointment of seeing others shrink away from it. That same feeling shows up now—in meetings, on stages, in boardrooms. Some of us lean in, hungry for truth and difference. Others recoil—still—though now with more polish, more power.

It’s not about food—it never was. It’s about fear. If they do it differently… am I doing it wrong?

But make no mistake—that disgust is taught. It is not mine. And it doesn’t have to be yours. We can unlearn it. We can decide, instead, to treat every human as fully human. We can see differences as richness and strength.

This is Independence Day. A celebration of freedom.

But freedom for whom?

The U.S. Declaration of Independence refers to my ancestors—Delaware and Cherokee—as “merciless Indian savages.” My presence is proof this country did not erase us. But it tried.

This holiday carries fire and contradiction.

Fireworks that split the sky. Barbecues and hot dogs and hands covered in ketchup and mustard—those are American. But rice eaten with hands? Too many say it’s gross. Uncivilized. Foreign. As if humanity can be revoked if it doesn’t come with a fork and a flag pin.

And those who hold power know this. They use that fear. They shrink the circle of “normal” down to a pinpoint, where only a few fit.

It’s why American white men invented the concept of whiteness in the 1700s—to stop poor folks from banding together by convincing lighter-skinned people they were closer to power than to their brown and Black neighbors. It wasn’t an accident. It was strategy.

Today, we get to choose.

I don’t perform loyalty to a version of America that’s allergic to truth.

But I do claim my right to exist, to thrive, and to tell the truth about this country—its stories, its wounds, and its possibilities.

We can stay small—clinging to what’s familiar, even when it no longer serves us. Or we can stretch. Not by pretending we’re all the same, but by recognizing that difference is the path to strength.

Systems built for sameness have never served us all. We grow as individuals, as communities, and yes—as a nation—when we welcome complexity, not erase it.

This is the work I do. Not just as a coach. As a human. As a woman who grew up poor and Indigenous and code-switching. As someone who finally said, “What if I stopped shrinking and just showed up?”

I believe we can build cultures—and countries—where authenticity is the norm. Where the regular cheese is whatever makes your body say yes. Where we lead with curiosity, not conformity.

We don’t grow by enforcing sameness. We grow by staying curious. We grow by embracing our dragons—those fiery instincts and inherited fears that rise when old rules no longer fit. Dragons don’t shrink to survive. We soar, rewrite, reclaim.

Let today be a reminder: independence isn’t about isolation. It’s about interdependence that honors every part of who we are. Including the messy parts. The parts that challenge. The parts that stretch us.

We can grow into something mythic. Something fierce. Something true.

That’s the path I choose. The Dragon Path. The one where we don’t erase difference—we fly with it.

Let this Independence Day be one where we choose fire over fear. Courage over comfort. Authenticity over assimilation.

Let us taste the kiwi again. Let us remember the corn and watermelon, sweet with memory and defiance—across borders, across histories. Let us trust that our differences aren’t threats—they’re invitations. They’re the start of something bigger.

Let the fireworks remind us: there is power in lighting things up. Not to destroy, but to illuminate. To grow.

We don’t need more regular bread. We need more permission to taste the kiwi.

Happy Independence Day. May you remember you’re already whole. May you trust that your difference isn’t a detour—it’s the way forward.

Shaped in conversation with AI—turning the fire in my bones into language on the page.