My dad taught me to live and die for the U.S. men’s national soccer team. That October night when the team failed to qualify for the 2018 World Cup, we sobbed together. Last Friday, while we watched the U.S. take on Paraguay, he whooped wildly, pounding his fists against a table — nearly breaking his finger — with every goal scored.
My dad was a Nicaraguan war refugee who immigrated from Belize to Costa Rica and eventually the U.S. He finally found a home in the men’s national team — a team with a supporter’s stand large enough for everyone.
While he taught me to love them, what the team represents became even more important as I grew up. As a biracial, second-generation immigrant coming of age in Minneapolis, I’ve witnessed violence and cruelty toward Black people, immigrants and non-white citizens. When I was seven, Philando Castile was killed by cops. When I was 10, the city erupted in protest and flames after a police officer murdered George Floyd. Earlier this year, Immigration and Customs Enforcement officers terrorized Latinos and Somalis, among other immigrant communities, and killed two citizens, Alex Pretti and Renee Good, who were protesting Operation Metro Surge.
The teenagers of Minneapolis, and others like me who value celebrating immigrants and diversity, need some way to see a country strong enough and welcoming enough that everyone who calls themselves American can see themselves in it.
This World Cup, we’re getting just that. Between the makeup of the men’s National Team and the way fans have been celebrating other teams and countries in the tournament — including in Minneapolis — the World Cup is renewing America’s dream of cherishing diversity and welcoming immigrants and visitors.
The men’s team is a great example of how America is stronger when it’s multicultural and multiracial. On the 26-man roster, six players grew up in foreign lands like the Netherlands, England, or Mexico. A third are the children of immigrants; half are dual citizens. Some players are white, some Black and some Latino.
When Folarin Balogun lashed the first goal scored by an American at this World Cup into the top-left corner of the net, it was a moment of pure, unadulterated American joy. He was born in Brooklyn to Nigerian parents and then raised in London. Sergiño Dest, born to a Surinamese-American father and a Dutch mother, ran alongside him, both grinning and yelling. As they neared the corner flag, Chris Richards, a multiracial centreback who grew up in Birmingham, Alabama, feeling “too Black for soccer… and too white for basketball,” jumped onto Balogun’s back as the team enveloped him.
That moment of American joy came about in part because of birthright citizenship — something President Donald Trump has tried vigorously to do away with. Balogun’s parents did not intend for him to be born in America, but since he was, he gets to be American. That is our nation’s creed.
The celebration of diversity and the warm welcome to those from other countries on the field is being mirrored in cities across America.
Kansas — and the city of Lawrence — has warmly welcomed the Algerian national team, who will play in Kansas City. As the team arrived at the University of Kansas training grounds, the KU band played their national anthem, the Kassaman, while wearing Algerian scarves. This despite a federal government that’s hostile to immigrants — Trump restricted visa applications from Algeria in January.
The thousands of Algerian diaspora members who live in the southern suburbs of Kansas City will get to see their team play against Austria on June 27. Some will get to go to the stadium, dress in white and green and sing the Kassaman on American soil. I, alongside my dad, will be there to watch and revel in their celebrations — I might even try to learn the Kassaman.
My hometown of Minneapolis is also taking the World Cup as an opportunity to celebrate its Mexican immigrant community, doubling down on diversity as a cornerstone value after the federal government tried to scare it out of us during Operation Metro Surge. Then, the people of Minneapolis came out on the streets to protect our neighbors. Now, we are returning to the streets to celebrate them.
Last Thursday, fans — Mexicans and Americans alike — gathered in downtown Minneapolis to watch the opening game of the World Cup, Mexico vs. South Africa. As El Tri beat South Africa 2-0, they rejoiced in Peavey Plaza, many donning Mexican jerseys, flags and scarves. They partied on the same streets from which just four months ago, many Latino residents, including Mexican-Americans, were assaulted and snatched into federal custody. This moment now is a story of hope and revival.
Some people might say: It’s just soccer — just 22 men on a field, right? How much can a sport really do to help make America more racially inclusive and welcoming toward immigrants, when the administration is trying to denaturalize citizens, make it harder to get a green card and roll back anti-discrimination protections?
Yet, this World Cup is so much more than 22 men on the field — and it is so much more than a game. Sports have a profound ability to bond strangers and to show us what we can aspire to as a nation.
When kids watch from home and see a white Christian Pulisic, Black Balogun and multiracial Richards all singing the national anthem, hand over their hearts for America, it shows them that multiculturalism and multiracialism make us stronger. When they see Kansans welcoming the national team from a country Trump’s anti-immigration moves have targeted, and celebrating with Algerian-American neighbors, they are reminded that we are a country that’s not only strong enough to embrace vastly different cultures and identities, but is better for it.
This afternoon, my dad and I watched as the U.S. beat Australia 2-0 in their second group stage game. I wore my 2016 Clint Dempsey jersey, and my dad wore his lucky 2006 USMNT shirt. This nation is based on ideals– American dreams, not blood and soil. I need an ideal to believe in; we all need something as important and as trivial as soccer and the men’s national team to rally around. As those boys take on the world, we will continue to cheer and cry — maybe even break a couple fingers — because they represent the nation we love, the nation we can still be.
