As a little girl, I always took pride in my nationalities. Having a British father and an American mother meant that I had a lot of opportunities solely American kids didn’t. I am already considered a British citizen and an American citizen, and I can easily obtain a British passport. When I was 2 years old, I had already traveled more than many of the kids in my classes later in high school.  I visited relatives in England, Scotland and Sweden. I don’t remember any of it, but I see the photos in early 2000s scrapbooks of my British grandmother and grandfather and Scottish great-grandfather in his kilt and think about how lucky I am.

At Christmastime, my family incorporates both American and British traditions.  My siblings and I open our stockings to reveal LUSH products, which at the time weren’t in the states, and satsumas, or little oranges. We eat sausage bread and mincemeat pies for breakfast, and we celebrate dinner with Christmas crackers. As we wear our paper crowns and read off jokes and riddles from the crackers, we eat the dessert I most love and only get twice a year: trifle.

During the spring while I was in elementary school, my dad would take my sister and me to baseball games at Dr Pepper stadium, and we would eat hot dogs and Dippin’ Dots as the sun went down and we sang the American national anthem.

For my sixth grade graduation, I wanted my dress to be different from the other girls,’ so I ordered a long blue flowered dress from H&M, which back then wasn’t very popular in America except in the big cities like New York.

On the Fourth of July, my mom would buy my sister and I matching American garb from Old Navy. Once we even went up to New Jersey to celebrate the holiday with my dad’s brother. I remember that as the most amazing firework show ever.

Basically, I was very proud of both my nationalities. I was. In those games on the first day of school where you’d have to guess which facts about each other were truths and which one was a lie, I’d always mention my father was British. My friends who come over to my house for the first time are always impressed by my dad’s accent, and even though I can’t hear it anymore, it always makes me feel a bit cooler when I hear people comment on it.

But now, in 2016, I don’t have the same pride I did. In fact, I’m rather ashamed. Just a few months ago, my home across the water chose to leave the EU, crashing their economy partially because of stigma about immigrants ruining it. This year, a candidate in the country I inhabit claims that our financial sufferings are the fault of immigrants from Mexico. I see hatred of women, people of color and men who love other men. I see shootings around every corner. I see #prayfor____ and I automatically assume the worst.

I can no longer be proud of countries where these things happen. Where pride becomes superiority over the kind of people who founded America in the first place: immigrants. Where scapegoats are groups of people, where stereotypes cloud our sense of humanity.

It may be too late for Britain to make up for the mistake they made by giving racists the idea that more than half a country supports them, but it may not be too late for the country I stand upon. The 2016 election can be our destruction if we do not learn from my country across the pond. Not voting inherently gives a candidate a chance to lead our country. Just because you do not have a strong opinion for a candidate doesn’t mean that you don’t have a strong preference against the other. It is a shame we must make the choice between a candidate we dislike and one whom we disdain, but it is the only choice we have now. Make the difference that you can. I know if we do not make the same mistakes, I can be proud once more.