I'm proud of the U.S.A. We've done some amazing things. To wear

Host: The ice rink was a cathedral of light and echoes. The arena sat empty, save for the ghosts of cheers still hanging in the air, and the faint sound of a Zamboni humming in the distance. Outside, snow fell under the stadium lights, slow, silent, sacred — like ash drifting after some beautiful battle.

Jack stood at center ice, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the American flag that hung above the rink, motionless in the still air. Jeeny entered quietly, her footsteps echoing, her breath visible in the cold.

Between them, the flag stirred — just slightly — as if it had heard Shaun White’s words drifting through the silence:
“I’m proud of the U.S.A. We’ve done some amazing things. To wear our flag in the Olympics is an honor.”

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that for a while.”

Jack: “Just thinking how much cloth can carry. A flag — it’s just fabric, right? But it holds everything. Pride, pain, wars, dreams, all stitched into one symbol.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than a symbol. It’s a promise. At least, it should be.”

Jack: “A promise we keep breaking, maybe.”

Host: His voice was low, measured, like the edge of a blade dulled by use but still sharp enough to cut. The lights above them glowed, casting a pale halo over the ice — a stage of frozen truth.

Jeeny: “You always do that. Twist pride into guilt.”

Jack: “Maybe because pride without reflection is just arrogance. You can’t be proud of a country unless you’re willing to look at what it’s done — the good, the bad, the broken.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people like Shaun White — they’re not blind. They just choose to celebrate what’s beautiful, not what’s rotten. There’s honor in that.”

Jack: “There’s comfort in that. Not the same thing.”

Host: Jeeny skated forward — slow, graceful, her movements reflecting the light. She spun, her hair trailing like a ribbon, her laugh soft, but real.

Jeeny: “You think being proud of your country means denying its flaws. I think it means loving it enough to carry them.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a relationship.”

Jeeny: “It is. The longest one you’ll ever have. You don’t divorce your homeland because it hurts you — you stay, you fight, you heal.”

Jack: “Or you leave, when the weight becomes too much.”

Jeeny: “Leaving doesn’t make the weight disappear. It just shifts to someone else’s shoulders.”

Host: The Zamboni hummed past, its lights casting lazy reflections across the ice. Jack watched it move, then sighed, hands tightening around the flag pin on his lapel.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I thought wearing that flag meant you were the good guy. That we were the heroes in every story. Then you grow up, and you realize — every country thinks it’s the hero.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not a lie. Maybe everyone just wants to be. Maybe that’s what keeps us from falling apart — the belief that we can still be better.”

Jack: “Belief’s a nice luxury. History doesn’t run on belief, Jeeny. It runs on blood and money and memory.”

Jeeny: “And yet, someone like Shaun White goes out there, flies through the air, and reminds the world that we can still create something beautiful out of the mess.”

Jack: “So a snowboarder becomes a philosopher now?”

Jeeny: “Maybe more than a philosopher. He acts, Jack. He represents something. That’s what you never give enough credit for — the power of a symbol lived, not just spoken.”

Host: The lights above the rink brightened, one by one, until the whole arena shone like a frozen cathedral. The flag above them fluttered, stirred by the air from the vents, as though listening.

Jack: “You ever notice how every time the flag is raised, someone somewhere is crying, and someone else is angry? Same symbol — two reactions.”

Jeeny: “Because symbols aren’t neutral. They mirror what’s inside you. For some, the flag is a memory of sacrifice. For others, it’s a reminder of what they’ve been denied.”

Jack: “So which is it for you?”

Jeeny: “Both. That’s why I still believe in it. It’s contradictory — like us. It fails, it rises, it tries again.”

Jack: “You sound like a campaign speech.”

Jeeny: “No. I sound like someone who still hopes.”

Host: Jack walked to the edge of the rink, hands in his coat pockets, his breath white in the air. The flag still hung above him, its colors muted in the cold light, its edges frayed but still whole.

Jack: “You ever think pride is just another form of possession? Like, we say ‘our flag,’ ‘our country,’ as if we own it. But maybe it’s the other way around — maybe it owns us.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s okay. Because to be owned by something greater than yourself — that’s not slavery, Jack. That’s belonging.”

Jack: “Belonging’s a beautiful word for a dangerous thing.”

Jeeny: “So is freedom. And yet we keep chasing it.”

Host: The snow outside the glass swirled like dust in a dream, the world outside now a blur of white and shadow. Jeeny stepped closer to him, her reflection joining his in the ice.

Jeeny: “You don’t have to love everything your country does. Just love that it can still change. That’s what the flag means to me — not perfection, but possibility.”

Jack: “And what if it stops changing?”

Jeeny: “Then it stops being America.”

Jack: “Maybe it already has.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we start it over again.”

Host: Their words hung in the air, visible, like the vapor of their breath — fragile, fleeting, but real. The arena hummed softly, the machines silent now, the ice smooth and perfect again.

Jack: “You ever think about what it feels like — to wear that flag in front of the whole world? To stand there while your anthem plays?”

Jeeny: “Like standing in a storm — knowing every eye is on you, but feeling something bigger than fear. Pride that isn’t about ownership, but about being part of something that’s still trying to be good.”

Jack: “Trying.” He smiled faintly. “That’s the key word.”

Jeeny: “Always. The flag doesn’t promise perfection. It promises the effort.”

Host: The lights dimmed again, until only the flag remained lit, glowing above the rink like a memory suspended in air.

Jeeny watched it sway, her voice soft:

Jeeny: “I’m proud of the U.S.A., too, Jack. Not because it’s flawless — but because people like us can stand here, argue, doubt, and still love it. That’s the honor Shaun was talking about.”

Jack: “Maybe pride isn’t about never questioning. Maybe it’s about caring enough to.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The flag settled, the arena now silent. Snow kept falling outside — gentle, persistent, pure.

Jack looked one last time at the flag — the red, the white, the blue — worn, real, and beautiful.

Jack: “It’s strange. For all our fights, our flaws, our noise — that thing still makes me feel… something.”

Jeeny: “That’s called home.”

Host: And as the lights went out, the flag remained, glowing faintly in the darkness — a symbol not of what the country was, but of what it still might become.