Lessons in Unity — From An Unlikely Source

When Rivalry Runs Deep, a “Yellow Shirt” Becomes the Lifeline

As a long-time resident of Medellín — where I taught as an adjunct professor at one of the nation’s top universities — I was once taking my usual late-afternoon siesta when horns and drums spilled through the window. My small rescue dog stirred at my side, ears perked. We stepped into the plaza.

Two rival Colombian soccer bands — the red shirts of Independiente Medellín and the green shirts of Atlético Nacional — were blasting fight songs side by side. Sworn enemies. And then something unthinkable happened: the bands began playing each other’s songs.

For that month of the World Cup, they forgot the hate. Red and green bled into yellow — the color of Colombia’s National Team. For thirty days, divided became united.

Ways of Unity

I’d seen rivalry in its rawest form. Clásico de Medellín, Nacional vs. Independiente, was legendary — not just noisy but historically toxic, even bloody. Nacional once carried the weight of Pablo Escobar’s billions; Independiente lived forever as underdog. Fifty thousand voices, fireworks, colors colliding — passion edged with chaos.

That’s why the plaza moment mattered. It wasn’t accidental. It was a choice Colombians had learned to make: to find ways to unite without catastrophe.

America has had its moments too: backyard Victory Gardens in World War II, a march under Lincoln’s statue in 1963, candlelight vigils after September 11. But here’s the hard truth: in the U.S., unity almost always waits for tragedy. Bombs must fall, towers collapse, leaders be gunned down — only then do we pause our fight songs long enough to sing together. That’s not resilience. It’s dysfunction.

The American Problem

Colombians find unity in joy — fútbol. Rivals bleed into yellow for a month. America, by contrast, finds division even in sport. Our National Teams — which should be our “Yellow Shirt” — have been mired in lawsuits, scandals, and fan outrage. The jersey that should bind us instead reminds us of what divides us.

The irony is sharp. In 1863, Colombia even called itself the United States of Colombia, yet civil war and cartel violence scarred its history. Hardly a model of cohesion. And still, in this one case, Colombians have found a way to choose unity without tragedy.

Meanwhile, America — which has avoided civil war for more than 150 years — can’t seem to summon unity unless catastrophe leaves no choice.

And with the World Cup Final coming to New York in 2026, Colombian fans will arrive scraping pesos together, while many Americans arrive by private jet. Their passion will eclipse ours tenfold. They’ll show us what it looks like when rivalries pause for a flag, when a shirt becomes more than a uniform.

The Wake-Up Call

I still think about that day in Medellín when rivals played each other’s songs. It wasn’t just an oddity of the World Cup — it was a glimpse of what it looks like when love of country grows bigger than love of tribe.

Maybe that’s the lesson for America. Until we find our own “Yellow Shirt,” the United States will remain what it too often feels like today: a phrase stitched on a flag, not a truth we live.

Because if our only path to unity runs through tragedy, then we are not one nation. We’re just strangers waiting for the next disaster to remember we belong together.