Patriotism in a Complex World
I know that this day, the 4th of July, comes with a lot of emotions. The paradox of wanting to celebrate traditions with family and friends and the utter devastation and grief from watching the sh*t show that is the current GOP Administration. The passing of this atrocious legislation that will be gutting programs like SNAP benefits and Medicaid. Robbing the poor to line pockets of the wealthy.
These days the class divide feels wider and wider. Watching celebrities attend lavish 50 million dollar weddings like they are royalty… while most people in the US are falling into deeper debts and watching neighbors being rounded up and put in detention centers because of legal status that in the past did not cause concern. The scapegoating of immigrants and DEI and Queer folx.
It’s… a lot.
This holiday means a lot to a lot of people. I understand that. It has deep meanings for me too. The evolution of my relationship to my country can be told in a history of 4th of July celebrations. And patriotic memories.
The other day I started singing every word to Toby Keith’s “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue.” Some people who know me now might be surprised that I know all the words to most patriotic songs from the early 2000’s. For example, I used to cheer when Toby sang:
“Now this nation that I love has fallen under attack, a mighty sucker punch came flying in from somewhere in the back, soon as we could see clearly through our big black eye, yeah we lit up your world like the 4th of July…”
Just casually celebrating sending American soldiers to fight in a war that would last over 20 years and take countless lives, both US soldiers and citizens of the countries we invaded.
My brother served in the Marines for 5 years. We were a military family. He was in Intelligence so he could not tell us exactly where he was stationed but we knew he was in Iraq. We knew he was in danger. I sat in my small dorm room with my tiny tv with an antennae so I could watch the news. This was 2002-2003. Every time they did a story about Marines being killed in Iraq my heart would race. I would begin a cycle of fear, doubt, anger and hope. I would spend hours trying to convince myself it wasn’t him while feeling awful wishing for that because it was someone. Always someone who had people who loved them just as much as I loved my brother.
I knew that we would hear from someone if something bad happened. We were lucky in that he lived. He is here and has a family and a career and he gets to do things he loves and participate in local politics. He is a city council member in his hometown in Colorado.
There also is a story from a 4th of July not long after he came back from one of his Tours of Iraq. He and my sister-in-law went to the fireworks show. He thought he would be fine but once the fireworks started, he got pushed into a PTSD episode and he took off running. My sister-in-law gathered all of their stuff and ran to the car to try and go find him. He bolted so fast she couldn’t keep up. She drove over to a police barricade and the officer told her she couldn’t go through that way. She frantically told him that her husband just got back from Iraq and he bolted when the bombs— I mean fireworks— started and she needed to find him. Graciously the police officer let her through and even jumped in his car to split the crowd for her. She found my brother running about a mile away on the road. He tends to stay away from fireworks shows now. Even though the 4th is still a favorite holiday for him.
I lost my taste for fireworks shows after that for many years. I never realized until I was older that the sound of bombs shouldn’t be something that we are proud of.
I was a senior in high school in 2001. I had just come back from my first ever trip to New York City in August of 2001. I stayed at Pace University in downtown NYC just steps from the World Trade Center buildings with the Leadership Conference I was attending. We walked past the two towers daily without thinking about it. I even have pictures from my camera from the Ferry on Liberty Island that have the World Trade Center towers in them. 3 weeks before they were destroyed.
On the day of the attacks, I wore my Statue of Liberty shirt for the first time. My friend, and now sister-in-law, came running up to me in the hallway when I was at my locker asking if I had seen the news that a plane crashed into a tower in NYC that morning. I had not and could not believe it. Once the second plane hit, everything changed. This wasn’t an accident, it was deliberate. We spent the rest of the day watching the news coverage in the library on old A/V TV’s on rolling carts.
My mom picked me up from school and I got in the car and said, “I was just there!” And burst into tears. My mom hugged me and handed me a cheeseburger and listened as I cried the whole way to the house I had to go and babysit at after school that day. With an adorable little boy who wanted to play war games. I distracted him with snacks and we played blocks instead.
My brother had signed up for the Marines about a month earlier.
This began one of the most intensely America!! Patriotic phases of my life. I listened to all of the country songs about how great America is. I put flags on my truck. Magnetic ones on the back truck bed.
I participated in a state-wide choir to raise money for victims of 9/11 and their families at the Pepsi Center in Downtown Denver. The big ending number was Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA.”
I was all in on AMERICA! THE GREATEST COUNTRY IN THE WORLD!
I felt my unyielding faith in the institutions sliding as President Bush would get on the news and talk about how close we were to finding weapons of mass destruction and then we just…kept not finding them. It made sense to me that we needed to retaliate. They had attacked us! It was the natural thing to do!
But the more it became clear to me that a lot of the claims they were making were not true… I started realizing that blind faith is not the way. I began questioning a lot about my country. And I felt guilty. Criticizing the US felt yucky in my mouth. I was raised in a religion that taught me that the USA was God’s chosen country. I was told that this country was the only place that all of His teachings could be restored because we have the basis of freedom of religion. I believed this with my whole heart. That the founding fathers were inspired by Heavenly Father for a grand purpose and that WE GOT TO PARTICIPATE! Called to be a part of this, the last dispensation before Jesus would come back to Earth and begin the 1,000 year peace known as the Millennium.
A lot has changed.
The interesting thing for me is that today I feel extremely patriotic. I see the flaws and cracks in the foundation of who America was created to be. It spouted ideals of Liberty and Justice for All. Freedom of the Press and freedom of Religion. While I watch the oligarchs in power insist that this nation is Christian and anything else should be outlawed. Watching them take 2000 year old ideas that were put together in a book that has nothing to do with the world as it actually is in 2025 and use that as an excuse to oppress and control as many marginalized groups as possible. It’s wild to see so many very intelligent people fall in line because they fear that this is what God wants. As if God was ever American.
I see the systemic racism. The hierarchies. The oppressive patriarchal values that dictate our education. (Thanks to Julia Stiles for that one).
I see the problems. And that makes me want to work harder. To seek out the ideals so they can actually ring true.
All Men/Women/Humans are created equal. That we are endowed with inalienable rights simply because we are living. That no human is an alien. No person is illegal. We are all beating hearts. We can work together to solve problems. Somehow we stopped agreeing on the problems along the way. And that makes it hard to work to solve them. We are operating from different frames of reference.
We can do better. It will take people working harder to talk about uncomfortable things. It will take us all leaning into our communities. It will take A LOT of listening.
If we want to avoid total annihilation, we need to listen to the groups of people who have survived genocides and apocalyptic circumstances. Like indigenous folks and people of color. Black people whose ancestors survived being enslaved. For generations.
These people are the wisdom keepers. They see the flaws better than white people can. As they say, a fish doesn’t know it’s swimming in water, it doesn’t know anything else. White people are fish. And it’s our job to learn about the uncomfortable history and keep working to root out the deeply rooted ideologies that are written into our very DNA.
It’s hard. And a lot. AND WE CAN DO IT!
So today, however it feels for you. Let’s “raise a glass to Freedom. Something they can never take away, no matter what they tell you.”
Lin-Manuel Miranda
While you’re at it, please read these books.
What it takes to Heal by Prentis Hemphill
Caste by Isabel Wilkerson
The Hunger Games Series by Suzanne Collins
The Giver by Lois Lowry
The Lottery by Shirley Jackson (short story)
I know why the caged bird sings by Maya Angelou
Beloved by Toni Morrison
Night by Eli Wiesel
I have many more recommendations if you are interested. Also add any ideas if you have some. Let’s educate the hell out of ourselves so we can resist.
Thinking of you all. Sending love.
Stef