This is The Shorts, and you're listening to The Dirt Back Diaries, a duct tape

and beer production, with support from New Belgium Brewing, Kuat Racks, and Patagonia.

Three months ago, I'm not sure that I would have considered myself a patriot.

I was grateful for my freedoms, but very mindful of my country's faults.

My appreciation for constitutional rights had been silly by what I saw as a blind superiority complex,

even xenophobia among many of my fellow Americans.

I struggled to separate gratefulness from my democratic republic,

from the narrow-minded arrogance that I saw spewed across social media and newscasts.

Mentally, I had very distinctly separated my nation,

the government, states, and people from my country.

The mountains, deserts, plains, and oceans that took my breath away.

Maybe I had taken my privileges for granted,

but I couldn't tell you the last time my heart had swelled with love or pride for my nation.

Then I drove into Zion National Park.

My boyfriend, Brendan and I, had been road tripping our way south and west across Utah,

paying homage to the sandstone monuments that dotted the map along the way.

I soaked in the views, hoping to burn the inky sunset profiles,

around Moab and Monument Valley, deep into my memory.

But driving through Navajo land was a reminder of the less than squeaky past of my United States.

There was no question that I loved the country,

but the shame of how the natives had been treated checked any sense of glowing pride

that I could experience about my nation.

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