Old Glory

My father used to hang our flag out on those particular days of the year set aside to honor patriotism or American troops—Veterans Day, Memorial Day, the Fourth of July. Early in the morning he would go to the hall closet, push aside the winter coats, extract the flag from where it had been languishing in a dark corner, and carry it to the front porch. My sister and I would follow him out and watch as he carefully removed the sheath that kept our flag protected from dust and debris, then, holding it high so that it never touched the ground, he would carefully slip the wooden dowel into the permanent metal holder he had bolted to the porch post, slowly rotating it so that the flag unfurled. It was such a precise and deliberate routine, I almost felt like saluting or placing my hand over my heart.

By the time I was a teenager, my father had been dead for years. No one put our flag out anymore. My generation was the one that burned the flag, or tore it in strips to make hair ties or bandanas, or sewed it upside down on the backs of military fatigue jackets. Our irreverence was monumental because our rage had reached monumental proportions. We were angry at the politicians we hadn’t elected and didn’t support, the ones who were sending teenaged boys off to fight a war in a country that was so far away we’d never even heard of it. We were even more angry when we discovered that those same politicians had been lying about what was really going on.

Many times, in those years, I thought of my father’s tender unfurling of the flag and his fierce patriotism. Had he lived to see the assassination of John F. Kennedy in 1963, the similar death of Kennedy’s brother Robert five years later, the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr. that same year, the rioting and chaos in this country and the mass slaughter on both sides in the Vietnam War, it would have broken his heart. Through it all, I have no doubt that he would have continued to bring out the flag on those special days, to hold it high and honor it.

Last night I fell asleep listening to the rain and thinking of my father. This morning at 6:30, when I was certain the storm had passed, and the sun began to rise on a gorgeous day, I went to my hall closet and retrieved my flag, carrying it to the front porch and slipping it into the stanchion on the post there. As I write this, I can see it through the glass panes of the kitchen door. A light breeze wafts through, and the stars and stripes flutter. Sixty years past, still angry at the state of the union, but never having lost my own sense of patriotism, I am proud to repeat my father’s routine. Sixty years on, when I am dead and gone, may Old Glory proudly wave still.

Patriot

I AM A PATRIOT.

I was born on the Fourth of July. Truly. When I was a child, did I ever think those fireworks were for me? Never. Every year, I watched my dad carefully hang our flag in its post on the front porch, heard him tell the neighbors what a great country we live in, watched him place his hand lovingly over his heart at the VFW hall to say the Pledge of Allegiance or sing the National Anthem. I knew why we celebrated the Fourth.

I AM A PATRIOT.

Both of my parents enlisted in the army during WWII. My mother was one of the strongest women I have ever known. She survived the Great Depression, the divorce of her parents, a family split apart by public scandal, an abusive first husband, and all the oppression of women that was rampant before we burned our bras in the 1960's. She was always so proud of the fact that her country recognized her as capable of helping in the war effort. She worked in transportation, servicing vehicles by changing the oil and other formally testosterone-associated tasks, providing critical maintenance to personnel carriers, jeeps and other vehicles. She never liked to talk about her past--unless you got her talking about her years serving her country.

I AM A PATRIOT.

I have voted in every presidential election since 1972.

I AM A PATRIOT.

When we were kids, my brother played trumpet in a drum and bugle corp. Watching him march in parades, the drums beating, the music crisp and sharp, and oh my goodness, the stars and stripes being carried in front of all those young people in uniform, I wanted to be a part of it all. So I joined the color guard so I could march along with them.

I AM A PATRIOT.

As a child I had an epiphany, realizing all on my own that I had won the birth lottery by being born in this country, where "It's a free country!" was a slogan we used as kids to mouth off to people who told us to settle down or straighten up or be quiet. But it's true; I knew from a young age, from listening to my dad, that men and women had sacrificed a great deal so that we could live in freedom. My dad was the great-grandson of immigrants who, like many Irish, came from a land that could offer them nothing to a land that would offer them an opportunity to grow and thrive. My dad's family was just scraping by when he left for the war. When he returned, he became a cab driver, then a cop. Before he died at the age of 43, he studied law and passed the bar exam. He would have been an attorney in California. Talk about the land of opportunity....

I AM A PATRIOT.

I have sung the National Anthem at pep rallies, basketball games, and oh my goodness, at a minor league baseball game with 2,000 people in attendance--and that was one of the proudest, happiest moments of my life.

I AM A PATRIOT.

By liberal friends believe that I align with them, that I am wholly left leaning. My Republican friends believe that as well, though some acquaintances think I am as far to the right as they are. The truth is, I am somewhere in between. And what I love about this country is that I can have friends on both sides. I can engage in conversation with conservatives and progressives, but I'm not required to choose one side or align myself with one particular way of thinking.

Beyond that, I can have conversations with many, many other people who are not like me--Jews and Muslims and atheists and yes, even Baptists and Episcopalians and Mormons. And these people can be my friends, folks whom I love and embrace and cherish. Black folks and brown, Asian and Indian. We are all in this together, and none of us will get out alive. I am blessed each day in this fleeting life that this country--this big, magnificent, beautiful country--gives me the freedom to go where I please when I please with whom I please. To know that right now, if I chose to, I could marry a Black Muslim woman and all my friends--ALL MY FRIENDS--would joyously attend my wedding is something that makes me proud of my country every single day.

I AM A PATRIOT.

Do not dare to think that because you adhere to one particular ideology, you alone get to assume the role of "patriot" and others do not. I am a flag-waving, parade-marching, Star-Spangled-Banner-singing, whole-hearted lover of this country, no matter who is posturing in the role of leader.

This land is MY land.

(Bless you, Woody Guthrie.)