The Myth of the Melting Pot: Why It’s Time to Embrace the Salad Bowl

For generations, the United States has proudly clung to the metaphor of the melting pot—a symbol meant to suggest unity, inclusion, and harmony. At its surface, it paints a picture of a nation where diverse cultures blend together to create something stronger, more unified. But let’s be honest: who exactly is doing the melting here? And at what cost?

The concept of the melting pot has not fostered cohesion. It has demanded assimilation. It has asked immigrants and marginalized groups to shed their languages, customs, and ways of being to conform to an imagined version of “American identity”—one that is overwhelmingly white, English-speaking, and Eurocentric. This narrative does not celebrate multiculturalism; it neutralizes it.

If this country were truly a melting pot that valued all ingredients equally, we would see white Americans regularly integrating traditions, values, and perspectives from other cultures into their daily lives—not just as cuisine or entertainment, but as meaningful, transformative practices. But how often does that happen? Unless someone is in an interracial or interethnic relationship, or works in a deeply diverse environment, the exchange tends to be one-directional. Cultural richness is often consumed, commodified, or appropriated, not truly honored or lived.

The melting pot metaphor is not just outdated—it is dishonest. It suggests that we are all equally participating in a cultural fusion, when in reality, many are pressured to melt down their identity to fit into a dominant mold. That is not unity. That is erasure.

It is time to move toward a more honest and respectful metaphor: the salad bowl. In a salad, every ingredient retains its unique flavor and texture. And yet, together, the components complement one another, creating a vibrant, nourishing experience. This is the kind of multicultural society we should aspire to—a place where differences are not only tolerated, but welcomed, tasted, and celebrated.

In a salad, cilantro is still cilantro. Tomatoes do not become lettuce. You taste the crunch of the cucumber, the zing of the dressing, and the richness of the avocado. Each ingredient is essential. None needs to disappear for the whole to work.

A true multicultural society does not demand sameness. It values co-existence. It challenges the dominant culture to open itself to change, to learn from others, and to grow. That takes humility. That takes effort. But it also brings the kind of beauty, innovation, and authenticity that cannot be achieved by watering everyone down into a single, bland substance.

So let us retire the melting pot. Let us instead prepare something more flavorful, more inclusive, and more honest. A salad where all of us—our stories, our identities, our roots—can be part of the dish without losing what makes us whole.

Devoted to the Moment: A Dream, a Breakdown, and a Song Called Del Fuego

Last night I had a dream—one of those rare ones that feel more like memory than imagination.

I was with my dad. He was walking—not frail or fading, but strong enough to move beside us. Andrea, Isaiah, Dad, and I were all headed to Tegucigalpa, the city that cradles so much of who I am. The car broke down. Two flat tires. Overheated. No plan B.

The pressure of getting there weighed on me like the sun overhead. So I did what I always do—I got out. I walked. Looking for help. Carrying the problem on my shoulders because that’s how I’ve survived: walk ahead, fix it, figure it out. I ended up in a hotel on the road, far from the car, far from Tegus. But somehow, they showed up. My dad, my people, found their way to me. The car was left behind, but we were together again.

That morning haze of the dream stayed with me. Then Del Fuego by Fat Freddy’s Drop played on my phone. And suddenly, the dream didn’t feel random—it felt like a soundtrack.


Longing makes the day seem twice as long,
Like an endless summer haze...
Hearts without home, searching for a place...

That is what grief feels like. A kind of roaming. A journey without a map. And like the lyrics say—“we can only watch and learn.” Sometimes the ash is cold. Sometimes we break down. Sometimes we do not make it all the way to the city or the closure or the finish line. But we’re still devoted to the moment. We’re still walking.

There was a line in the song that broke me:


Don’t let your pride feed the fire—
It was never within your control.

So much of this last year has felt like trying to hold the universe together with my bare hands. Caring for my dad across borders, carrying the emotional weight of being the oldest, the caretaker, the one who goes ahead to figure things out.

This dream was my dad showing up to remind me: you do not have to fix everything to be loved.

So maybe we never made it to Tegus in the dream. Maybe that is okay.
Maybe the car stays broken. Maybe the journey continues.

But I woke up knowing:
I am not lost. I am just roaming—with purpose. Devoted to the moment.

Balancing Acts: Life, Loss, and Becoming

I do not even know how to start this post other than to say—I am in it. In the middle of life, in the middle of grief, in the middle of becoming someone I have fought hard to be.

Right now, I wear many hats. I am a Clinical Research Associate, working in the radiology department of a hospital—coordinating MRI studies, juggling regulatory documents, and navigating the bureaucracies of research. I am also a graduate student in a dual MSW/MPA program, a part-time team member at Family Service Center, and a social work intern supporting bilingual families in my community. I am a daughter who just lost her father a few months ago, and I am trying to grieve that loss while holding up every other part of my life with both hands.

Some days, it feels manageable. Other days, the grief blindsides me mid-sentence or in the middle of reviewing a research invoice. I was a long-distance caregiver for my dad while he was terminally ill in Honduras. I worked two jobs to support him, sent medications, paid for care, and held my breath every time the phone rang. Now, I am learning what it means to keep living after your role as a caregiver ends and the silence of absence takes its place.

What keeps me grounded is purpose. The work I do with FSC reminds me that communities can heal together. That language, culture, and understanding matter. That every intake form I help a client complete is an act of trust. That advocacy and systems work are not abstract—they are personal.

Graduate school has tested me—emotionally, intellectually, and physically. There are moments where I question if I can keep going. But every assignment, every discussion post, every late-night reflection is another step forward. I am not just earning a degree. I am building the kind of future where my voice matters, where my story becomes a tool for change, where I can open doors for others who have walked through fire.

This season of my life is messy. It is overloaded with Google calendars, unread emails, and overlapping Zoom links. But it is also rich—with meaning, with growth, with glimpses of healing I did not think I would feel again.

If you are in the middle of your own “becoming,” I see you. It is not always graceful. Sometimes it looks like crying on the bathroom floor, or laughing too hard at something just to keep from falling apart. But it counts. You count.

Here is to showing up anyway.

When Protecting Your Peace Means Letting Go (for Now)

This week, I made a hard but necessary decision: I blocked my aunts on my phone. Not out of anger, not out of spite—but out of self-preservation.

Grief has a way of stripping everything down to the truth. And the truth is, I am doing the best I can. I am adjusting to a new internship, working two jobs, grieving my father, and trying to show up for myself and others in the midst of it all. The weight is real, and I am human.

Yesterday, I had a moment of emotional overflow. I felt seen and supported by my siblings, and that mattered more than I can explain. Just having someone listen when your heart is tired can make all the difference.

Family conflict—especially in the wake of loss—can feel like a thousand sharp edges. But I have learned that I do not have to keep touching the knife to prove I care. Sometimes love looks like space. Sometimes peace looks like silence. And sometimes, growth means stepping back, even when others do not understand.

I am not shutting the door forever. I am simply choosing not to stand in the crossfire while trying to heal. Until we receive more clarity, I am letting this situation sit where it is. No more chasing closure. No more explaining myself to people committed to misunderstanding me.

To anyone else navigating family tensions while grieving, let me say this:

You are allowed to protect your peace.

You are allowed to pause conversations that hurt more than they help.

And you are allowed to take care of you, even if others think that makes you selfish.

I am learning—slowly, imperfectly—that boundaries are not walls. They are doors I get to open when and if I feel safe.

And right now, mine is closed.