No Place Like Home 

“Why do I love this place / That’s never loved me?” 

These are the opening lines from “No Place Like Home,” a song written by composer Stephen Schwartz for the box-office triumph: “Wicked: For Good.” For many, it was just another song in the movie, but for me, it resonated on a much deeper level. 

It is clear that the song serves as an allegorical reflection on the current state of the nation and speaks to what America, our own “Oz,” should be. As the song goes, it’s more “than just a place / It’s a promise, an idea.” With next year marking the 250th Anniversary of the United States, I found myself reflecting on why people continue to love the U.S. despite the wrongdoings it has committed against so many communities over the course of its history. 

It is in this vein that I think of my mother’s godmother, Mimi Jones. This name will be unfamiliar to the vast majority of you, but many of you know her face. At 17 years old, my Aunt Mimi chose, as an act of protest, to go swimming in the Monson Motor Lodge swimming pool in St. Augustine, Florida. Did I forget to mention that the year was 1964 and this particular pool had a ‘whites only’ policy? 

You can imagine that when a Black teenage girl’s nappy afro broke the water’s surface, trouble was sure to follow. What you might not expect is that the hotel manager, James Brock, then ran to the poolside and poured muriatic acid into the water, in an attempt to displace the protestors—my Aunt Mimi included. Cruel and barbaric acts marked the Civil Rights Era, so perhaps this shouldn’t have been a surprise to me when I first heard the story as a child. Nevertheless, instead of being sent to the hospital after the traumatic event that left her struggling to breathe, she was arrested and charged with “malicious trespassing,” among other offenses. 

Described as a “milestone” moment by Gayle Phillips, director of the Lincolnville Museum and Cultural Center, the St Augustine protests highlighted the reality of the Civil Rights Movement on the national and international stage. Some even go so far as to suggest that the images coming out of St. Augustine led to the end of the 83-day Senate filibuster on the Civil Rights Act of 1964. 

Though my Aunt Mimi has since passed away, and though I never thought to ask her this, I often wonder: Why would she, of all people, love a place that historically never loved her or people that looked like her? After the protest, she spent the rest of her life in service to others through volunteering, aiding the poor, and helping immigrants enjoy the freedoms for which she literally put her body on the line. Her commitment to bettering her community and preparing the next generation of “unloved” Americans is commendable, but her story is far from unique. Thousands of people across the country, thousands of “Mimi Joneses,” have given back and continue to do so, even though the nation has not always loved them as it should. We may never fully know why this phenomenon persists, but perhaps it is as the song goes: for all its faults, “There’s no place like home.” 

Home is an abstract concept, existing in a multitude of different places for every individual. What is similar, though, in the idea of home is the sense of safety and security. It is a place where you feel comfortable in your own skin and free to express your identity without fear. Many people however have never found such a home, or they have had it taken from them. It is that belief in safety, security, and prosperity that has inspired millions of immigrants throughout history to leave the only home they knew in search of the American Dream. 

So what is the promise of America? Inscribed on the pedestal of the Statue of Liberty is the “New Colossus,” Emma Lazarus’s sonnet, which names the statue as the “Mother of Exiles.” It reads: “Give me your tired, your poor, / Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, / The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. / Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, / I lift my lamp beside the golden door!” This is the promise of America that inspired and continues to inspire the tired, poor, and displaced to come and try to build a home here. The idea that you can be seen for what you are and not for what you were, a place where doors open wherever you turn, and the sky’s the limit. 

As we approach the 250th anniversary of the United States and the first anniversary of President Donald Trump’s second presidential term, it is worth reflecting on how we are living up to that promise. On Dec. 2, Trump, in what many have labeled a racist tirade, described Somali immigrants, of which most are U.S. citizens, as “garbage.” This comment does not exist in a vacuum; it is endemic to a longstanding pattern of anti-immigrant rhetoric that has become a staple of Trump’s political lexicon. 

This language, and the sentiment it fuels, is more than just offensive; it dehumanizes entire communities and fundamentally undermines the core values this nation was built upon. The promise inscribed at the base of the Statue of Liberty is not just poetic idealism—it is a moral compass that should guide how we treat those fleeing hardship in search of a better life in a nation that likes to believe, at least, that liberty comes first. 

This tension between promise and practice is what makes stories like my Aunt Mimi’s so important as we reflect on 250 years of the U.S. Her story, like so many others, reminds us that the pursuit of liberty, equality, and justice often demands courage and unwavering commitment in the face of hardship. America’s greatness has always depended on those who tirelessly rose to challenge its failures while striving toward its ideals.

For many marginalized groups in this country, there is no other choice but to stay and fight. Their histories began in this country, quite literally shaping the nation—and continue to do so. The option to leave was not always a possibility, and even when it was, staying was a form of resistance to inequality and oppression in its own way. In staying, they asserted not only their presence but also a sense of a continued fight, never relenting in the belief that the America of tomorrow will grant future generations the life that was denied to them in the America of yesterday and, in some cases, the America of today. 

To uphold what it means to be American, and to preserve America itself, we must stand against rhetoric that seeks to demonize the “huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” We must embrace our diverse culture as a strength, place human dignity above all else, and maintain our values beyond ideals engraved in stone. These values are not theoretical; they call on each of us to reflect on the kind of country we want to leave future generations. 

As the semester comes to a close and we all leave campus for our own homes, spare a thought for what you want your broader home—your country—to look like over the next 250 years. Even in the face of uncertainty, there is reason for hope. America has weathered rougher storms and emerged stronger, guided by the courage and resilience of communities who refused to be silenced and by enduring ideals that continue to light the path forward. 

Noah Basden ’29 (nhbasden@college.harvard.edu) should have stayed awake for the whole movie.