Memorial Day

For years, I was one of those people who flew the American flag at my home for every national holiday. And most of the time in between. But I would not describe myself as the typical patriot. I don’t tear up when I see the flag flying. I consider being a soldier a noble thing, but not necessarily a higher service than other professions. (People who never wore the uniform have died for this nation as well.) I respect what the Founders did and deeply appreciate it, but recognize that they were not infallible or always so great. And I definitely don’t think America is necessarily the greatest nation on earth. It has the potential to be the greatest nation on earth, but with the power it has, it can also be much less than that. At times, it has not been so great.

My love for America is like my love for my children. I don’t think the question of whether my children are the greatest kids of all time is relevant. I love them because they are mine. Same with the U.S. I don’t love it because I think it is necessarily greater than France or Japan or Brazil. But it is my home and I love the people who live here, and basically, that’s enough.

I flew Old Glory after Hurricane Katrina and through COVID. Through the first Trump administration and through Biden’s. But when America began its mass deportation program, bombing foreign countries, savaging the university system, and undermining medicine, I stopped. It hasn’t flown in more than a year.

The day before Memorial Day, when I was shopping with my wife at the Dollar store, I saw a Black mother with her two children buying decorations for Memorial Day. Little flags, Uncle Sam hats, red, white, and blue bunting. The kids seemed excited.

And thought: A Black family — in Mississippi — celebrating their American heritage. If anyone should resent what this country has done to them, it is this one. Yet they celebrate.

If they can, so should I. So I put my flag back up.