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Once upon a time…

It’s how every fairy tale begins. Once upon a time there was a fair maiden who was nothing until a rich handsome prince showed up, told her she was pretty, and they lived happily ever after. Once upon a time there were unknown lands until one brave man discovered them. Once upon a time people risked their lives to create a utopia of freedom. Once upon a time a boy who could not tell a lie became our first and greatest leader.

We love these stories. We revere these stories and the men they idolize. We make couplets and poems to celebrate them. We pass down idioms and proverbs about them. We build monuments to them and name streets, towns, states after their heroes. Deep down we know the real story looks nothing like the legendary version, but we prefer to view them through a rosy lens, package it in red, white, and blue, and call it patriotism.

Any challenge to this narrative is considered an attack. Any reframing of history is unpatriotic. We make excuses for evil and call it a by-product of the era. When voices speak out against this practice, we say, “You must not love this country. You’re not happy with the way things are? Maybe you should leave.”

As I’ve observed events and the resulting conversations over the past few weeks of upheaval, a story picture has formed in my mind. My close friend had recently quoted Mark 3:25 on one of our walks, “A house divided against itself cannot stand.” (Everybody likes to attribute that to Lincoln, but it was Jesus.) The metaphor of this nation being a house is a powerful one, and as I ruminated on it some truths have been revealing themselves in my heart.

Instead of a fairytale, which often bears little resemblance to reality, I’d like to tell an allegory about patriotism. It goes like this:

You’re a judge and a woman comes to you about the man she lives with.

She tells you the relationship began when he kidnapped her from her home as a child. He gave her a new name, forbade her from using her old name or practicing any of her family traditions, and told her she could no longer speak of the place or people from which she’d originated. He controlled her comings and goings, forcing her to work hard labor all day. He’d laid the foundation of his house but coerced her to build the mansion it sat upon. He took her body without consent whenever he chose, denied responsibility for the children she bore him, and treated them with contempt and derision. He gained tremendous wealth because of her, and gave her not a penny. On his best days, he didn’t beat or rape her, but those days weren’t the norm.

Then one day the police showed up and said yeah, you can’t do that anymore so he reluctantly said she was free…only she had no money and no place to go. In fact, he was supposed to give her land to build her own home and he promised he would, but never followed through. She couldn’t go back to the home from which she’d been stolen, even if she wanted to do so. He’d purposely erased all memory of that place because if she knew of the greatness of her People and the things they’d achieved, she would be a threat to him and all he’d come to possess through her work and from robbery of the original residents of the land.

Against all odds and efforts, she constructed a beautiful addition onto the house and opened a thriving business.

Bitterness and anger seethed in him. How dare she, he thought. So, he burned her new space to the ground. He did it brazenly and without fear of repercussion. He bragged about it to anyone who would listen. With each step forward he met her progress with resistance. He watched her every move in hopes she would make a misstep so he could put her in bondage again.

However, he continuously underestimated her tenacity, and time and again she rebuilt.

See, the thing is, he wanted to control her because he saw how beautiful and strong she was. He was obsessed with her and yet hated her for his own obsession. He loved the sound of her voice, and her humor gave him joy. He admired her innovation, creativity, and intelligence but was insanely jealous and terrified of losing the upper hand in the relationship. He feared the day she’d recognize the full extent of her potential, her power, and the true legacy from which she’d come. His only hope was trying to convince her she wasn’t capable of living without him when in reality he wouldn’t be what he was without her. After all, she was responsible for his fortune.

As time went on, he decided to take a different approach. He wouldn’t be outwardly abusive to her, instead he’d joke about her with his buddies behind closed doors. He’d no longer let people see him undermining her success. He knew he’d have to get more crafty and surreptitious in his endeavors. He learned to reframe the conversation so that whenever she objected to his treatment of her or complained about the deterioration of the house, he’d bring up all the things he’d provided her, the ways he’d attempted to improve his treatment of her, and any mistakes she might have made along the way. He twisted the story until even he no longer knew truth from fiction. To his friends he tried to make her look ungrateful, lazy, stupid, dangerous, or unfaithful. He claimed she was the abusive one whenever she fought back or retaliated against his cruelty. He pointed to the hole she’d punched in the wall during a moment of frustration and blamed her for the home’s state of disrepair.

Over the years, he became more and more oblivious to the condition of the house. It was dilapidated. No longer the most beautiful house on the block, it had become an eyesore, and an embarrassment. Shingles were falling off and rats had infested the attic. The foundation began to crumble because the materials and technique he’d used had appeared to be good on the façade but were actually deeply flawed and weak.

Despite this, the woman still believed the situation could be remedied. She believed they could live in peace together in the home. She believed if they shored up the cracks in the foundation it might continue to stand but drastic changes to its structure were required.

So, she presented him with a list of items needing to be addressed. He ignored them. The electrical system shorted out but only in her part of the house. Once again she presented her list. He disregarded it and told her to light a candle. The water heater went out in the middle of her shower. He told her to stop yelling at him about the things wrong with the house and be grateful because cold water was better than no water.

She still valued the house. After all, she’d built it with her own blood, sweat, and tears. She visualized its potential, dreamed of what it could be with a solid foundation and repairs to those aspects of it which weren’t functioning properly. Unfortunately, he refused to acknowledge its inadequacies. She couldn’t understand why he hated her so much he’d rather let the place fall completely apart until it was uninhabitable rather than work to make it livable for both of them.

If it were going to be saved, it would need major renovations. The plumbing system? Broken and outdated, only functioning in certain rooms of the house, but not in hers. The sewage line leaked, seeping into the groundwater. The ceilings of her portion of the house were significantly lower than the rest of the home. The original addition she’d built – the one he’d burned down – was lofty, with skylights. When she rebuilt it, he imposed a strict and unreasonable height limit on her roof.

It’s difficult to hold one’s head up if the ceiling is encroaching and preventing you from standing straight.

When she lifted her head and broke through the ceiling, he’d show up promptly to spackle it over. He couldn’t be counted on for any other repairs, but fixing that ceiling was both his priority and his specialty.

The man said, “This house is great. It’s always been great, and I’ve been good to you, mostly. I mean, there was that one time…and that other time…and the time after that…but that was years ago. Okay, months ago. Oh, yeah, weeks ago. It’s been at least 48 hours since I abused, disrespected, and attempted to dehumanize you. Why must you hold a grudge? I put new carpet over the rotting floor and wallpaper over the moldy walls, isn’t that enough? Frankly, I’ve had enough of your complaining. If you don’t like this house, you can leave. I’ve done all I’m willing to do.”

So she comes to you, the judge, and asks a simple question.

Who loves the house more: the one willing to honestly assess its problems and then work to repair them or the one who says “stop trying to change the house, it’s livable enough for me?”

And I ask you…

Who loves this country more: the one who sees that justice is being applied unevenly and advocates for reformation, or the one who turns a blind eye because it doesn’t affect them?

Who loves this country more: the one who sees that it’s failing its citizens and seeks to remedy that, or the one who declares it just fine and if you don’t like it, you can leave?

Who loves this country more: a person who quietly kneels during the anthem in protest asking that all men and women be afforded the right to live unoppressed, or the one who belts out the words “land of the free” while waving an American flag but decries the removal of monuments to slavers, traitors (confederates), and white supremacists?

I’d posit that a man who beats his wife, is unfaithful, inhibits her ability to get a job, doesn’t allow her freedom to move about, refuses couples counseling, and speaks disparagingly about her but prominently wears his wedding ring does not love his wife more than a man who listens, respects, works on conflict, and isn’t complacent about her happiness but chooses not to wear a ring.

Likewise, outward symbols of patriotism are not necessarily a true indication of the commitment a person has to the collective good of a nation. In fact, I’ve observed in some of the most star-spangle-bedazzled people an entrenched resistance to the concept of a collective good. The great irony of the United States of America is our fetishization of individualism while extoling unity. Individualism is social Darwinism. Every man for himself. If we were truly united, we would be unsatisfied with the state of things as long as not everyone enjoys the same level of freedom, opportunity, and safety.

We claim love of country but are cool with twenty million of our citizens living in poverty, many of whom are children. We claim love of country but are only mildly bothered by its injustice and hypocrisy. We despise those who protest the flag but display it in vain.

Our values are freedom* (despite having the highest level of incarceration in the world following a 400+ year history of the enslavement of human beings), democracy* (despite a long-standing effort towards disenfranchisement that is actually getting worse, not better), and the pursuit of happiness. That last one we do pretty well. We especially like to pursue happiness at the expense of others and call it capitalism.

So, who is the real patriot? The one who looks upon the dysfunctional status quo and declares it great as long as it benefits them, or the one who seeks to actually remake this nation into the thing it has always claimed to be but has never really lived up to; a beacon of liberty and justice for all?

This photo courtesy Pugsonparade

As I prepared to write this blog, I went looking for funny Fourth of July photos and memes. Instead, what I found were a lot of mean-spirited things, things that reinforced my dismay at the state of our country, and stuff that in today’s political climate just made me sad. It’s hard to be mad at patriotic pugs, though.

This year, I must admit, I’m struggling to get excited for the Fourth. I guess that’s my main confession. Checking out at the grocery store, going in for a facial appointment, talking to friends, everyone asks, “Any plans for the holiday?” It takes me a moment to even remember what holiday they’re talking about.

In years past, it was a big one for me. Since I was a little girl my family has celebrated, and I have fond memories of each. When I was younger, we’d go to my grandparents’ or my great aunt and uncle’s house  across the street from each other in Laguna Niguel. We’d spend the day at the beach, followed by barbeque and a very deliberate and organized firework display. Uncle Bud would light one safe and sane tower or cone, we’d clap and cheer, and when it was done, he’d move on to the next. The kids got the snakes and the sparklers, and my grandfather would randomly drop firecrackers to scare whoever was standing nearby minding their own business.

After moving to Washington State, we sometimes spent the holiday camping in Coeur D’Alene, Idaho. Once again, my grandfather, who rarely talked and walked at the pace of a mummy, would casually let drop a lit firecracker and keep walking. It was a little passive-aggressive, and he thought it was hilarious.

For the past twenty years off and on (mostly on), my parents hosted at their house. Sometimes we’d have 15 people, sometimes 50. Many were people we’d only see on that one day a year. My father used a propane torch to set off mortars from the launch tubes he nailed into the guard rail that lines the hill alongside their house.  Every year we knew it was going to be THE year someone lost a digit or set the house across the street on fire. It was always an extravaganza of food, fun and fireworks.

Last year was the first year we didn’t do the party, and I was okay with that, although a little melancholy. This year, I’m not even feeling sentimental about it. It’s as if this past political year has sucked the patriotism right out of me. Frankly, I was more excited about Canada’s sesquicentennial on July 1st.  (I think that technically makes confession number two.)

As I’ve been thinking about why I’m not excited, I’ve been  processing my patriotic feelings in general. Some are positive, some are not. And because I’m battling a nasty cold, my brain is too fuzzy to put these into any order of importance. Here, in a stream of consciousness, are my confessions:

1. I hate apple pie. Okay, maybe hate is too strong of a word. It’s probably at the very bottom of my pie choices. I might eat it if it were given to me without alternative, but I really don’t enjoy it. I like apple crisp (as long as it’s granny smith apples) and I really like the apple berry crumb pie from the Snohomish Pie Company. I’d prefer “American as peach pie” or maybe “American as Rocky Road ice cream.”
2. I cry every time I hear Neil Diamond’s “America.” I can’t help it. It makes me think of what real patriotism is about, not the kind where we only celebrate those who were born here, but those who were escaping dire circumstances in their homeland and saw this place as a beacon of hope and freedom. On the flip side, if I never heard “Proud to be American” for the rest of my life, I’d be perfectly okay with that.
3. I no longer idolize our founding fathers. I’m not even sure I like them. The amount of historical research I’ve done has led me to a place where I can appreciate the things they did with good intent, while not ignoring their serious character flaws. I think we do our kids a huge disservice by putting these men on pedestals, because I can say from my own personal experience, it sucks to see your heroes fall. Why do we teach only the cute little poems and legendary stories, while completely ignoring reality? While being men of great vision, they were not moral paragons. They definitely weren’t all (or even mostly) Christian, despite what my local town newspaper published this week. They were deists who had an agenda, and it wasn’t a utopia of freedom for all men, it was an opportunistic one that would benefit THEM. They wrote that ALL men were endowed with certain inalienable rights, life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, ENDOWED BY THEIR CREATOR, while simultaneously holding fellow human beings in bondage of chattal slavery.  Those are not traits I find admirable. And guess what? I can love my country and recognize their contributions while being honest about their flaws.
4. I love Citizenship ceremonies. I love seeing people from all over the world, from every ethnicity, nation and religion, who know more about our democracy and our constitution than the majority of natural born citizens, pledging to contribute to the beautiful patchwork that makes up the people of this country. I remember going in to my dry cleaners and every time, the woman who worked the counter would put down her citizenship study guide to help me. It made me feel proud to belong to a place where she felt welcome, and that she wanted to be a part of it. At the same time, I recognize that our immigration system is messed up, that it’s too hard for immigrants to come legally, and too easy for some to come illegally. Because I was born here, I consider myself lucky, not entitled, and I don’t begrudge anyone born into a place where there is poverty, famine, war or authoritarian regimes wanting to come here to escape that. I don’t fear people who are not like me, I desire to learn from them.
5. I am not a fan of the melting pot analogy. I am a fan of cultural diversity. I love to visit the International district in Seattle, Chinatown in San Francisco, Little Saigon in Westminster, Olvera Street in Los Angeles, Little Havana in Miami, Little Italy in New York, the French Quarter in New Orleans. I have no desire to see the colors of the rainbow melted into a homogenous goop. I want to know about where people come from. I have no desire to strip them of their traditions to ‘Muricanize them. Our country is great because of its people, and the people of this country come from all over the world.
6. Hatred, fear, exclusivity, elitism, nationalism, and racism should not be American values, and they sap my patriotism. What invigorates my patriotism is unity, celebration, hospitality to those in need, men and women who risk it all to serve our nation in the armed forces, Veterans, the families of service members who have made so many sacrifices in support of their soldier, their sailor, their marine, their…what do you call Air force people? Ah, Airmen.  And the Coast Guard. However, our treatment of veterans is definitely not a source of national pride for me.
7. I discovered I’m related to Francis Scott Key, author of the poem that became the National Anthem. He’s my 3rd cousin, 6x removed. I was excited to discover that fact, but less excited when I read the 3rd verse that no one really thought about or knew existed prior to the protests of Colin Kaepernick, the now much-maligned and former quarterback in the NFL. On a side note, protests are as American as…peach pie.
8. For those who’ve known me a while, it may not be a surprise that I have a strong affection for the First Nations people of America. As a young child, I wanted to belong to a tribe. I didn’t know enough to know there are more than 500 registered tribes, all with varying languages, culture, traditions, history. They deserve the honor and respect of calling them by name instead of painting them all with one broad cultural brush.
9. My great grandfather was a World War I veteran, National Commander of the American Legion, LA county Assessor, candidate for governor of the state of California. and a strong advocate for veteran’s affairs. His father was an immigrant from Ireland who settled in the central valley of California, having left his home during the Great Famine. I can admire my great grandfather while also acknowledging he had a huge blind spot regarding immigrants. You see, despite the fact his father came to this country seeking a better life, he believed immigrants, particularly those of Mexican descent, were taking jobs which rightfully belonged to veterans. Rather than solely addressing the failings of the US government to serve the needs of returning veterans and their families or the widows and orphans created by our involvement in global conflicts, he found a convenient  scapegoat. If he were alive today, I would argue to him that we can simultaneously welcome immigrants and still serve our veterans. These two issues are not mutually exclusive.
10. We’ve spent hundreds of dollars, possibly thousands, on fireworks over the years, on something that literally goes up in a puff of smoke (with report). My husband used to joke “some have a 401k, we have fireworks.” This year, as with last year, we have spent zero dollars. I can tell you it feels really good.
11. I used to think the American experience was the same for everyone. I didn’t know that there were different levels of “freedom,” depending on your ethnicity and/or your income. I believed opportunities were the same for everyone, and that the American Dream was a reality for anyone who wanted it. Opportunity exists, but I’ve talked to too many people for whom race and poverty have impeded that dream, obstacles had to be overcome that I never had to face, and discouraging discrimination that I never experienced. I don’t take my freedom for granted, not only because I know that it’s a rare and valuable thing, but also because I know many people who have been deprived of it in many ways.
12. Wonder Woman may be my favorite American this year, and she’s Amazonian. Or Greek. It’s kind of confusing.

I know this is rambling. Like I said, I’m in a weird place, I’ve got the remnants of a nasty cold, and it’s just been a strange year.

So, happy birthday America. Hope you get some therapy and next year I’ll feel more like celebrating. I’m headed to Canada in a couple weeks, and that Justin Trudeau and socialized medicine is pretty appealing. I just think you should know, I’ve got options if you can’t pull it together.