As a six-year-old you generally swallow whatever grown-ups are serving. Cynicism and skepticism have yet to develop to protect your child-brain, so you take in what you’re told, then reach for a toy.
I have fond memories of elementary school. In spite of the thin, high-collared women who towered disapprovingly over our desks, demanding conformity and encouraging uniformity, kindergarten through fifth grade were good years. We had frequent recesses, big playgrounds, and a comfortable routine. We said the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag in the classroom every morning. I was proud to be an American — mostly because I was told that my country was the best. That’s what kids dig: being the best. My earliest memory of being genuinely proud of my country is of sitting on the carpeted floor in the living room watching a black and white transmission from space as American men walked on the moon. Yep, the best.
Now I’m 45 and I don’t give my allegiance so easily. Since the 1971 moon walk I’ve seen some things and learned some. I have another memory, on the same spot on that same carpeted floor watching that same TV. This time my mom was standing behind me, watching too. It was 1974 and a man named Nixon was quitting his job. I didn’t get it, but my mom seemed disturbed. Today, hardly a week goes by without some Congressman using the term patriot, traitor, or treason. Small, cheap words.
I can still say the Pledge of Allegiance. The words start a little staccato, but come back quickly. Warmth fills me when I say it; I like saying it. At first I resist, thinking that this warmth is deceptive, a sign of childhood indoctrination. But then my adult, rational brain reminds me of all that I’ve learned about my America since I was six. It stands for something. The stones that form the foundation of my America are still there, though they’re hard to see through the fog created by modern media and myopic leaders. History cannot be altered, only twisted.
Powerful words still echo from ancient Philadelphia — the words of Jefferson, Adams, Franklin, and their kin: Liberty, Equality, Justice, Self-determination, Self-government, Toleration, and Freedom of Religion. Even a cursory reading of the Declaration of Independence or the Bill of Rights will show that these are the ideas laid to oppose tyranny and establish the basis of the American Way.
It was this stake driven into the sand that became a torch, a beacon that drew millions as wave after wave of immigrants crossed the oceans hoping to raise their children in this land of opportunity.
As a six-year-old I did crafts depicting the American Melting Pot, under the instruction that America was better for being made of many different peoples becoming one — E Pluribus Unum and all that. I remember colored paper cut-outs of the Statue of Liberty, and hearing the teacher recite some words carved on a bronze plaque in the Statue’s base:
“‘Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!’ cries she
With silent lips. ‘Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'”
Now, at 45, I understand that these immigrants, my genetic ancestors, have made this country strong and fascinating. It was they who fueled the engines of industrialization and westward expansion, without which the Civil War and World Wars might have ended differently. They lived lives of determination, ingenuity, perseverance, and bravery as they pushed the frontier all the way back to the Pacific and into the ocean. They built railroads, ships, and factories. They turned wild prairie land into farms that feed the world. They were explorers, conquerors, and settlers. But they began as homeless and tempest-tost.
Today we have razor-wire to keep out the wretched refuse.
It’s time for Thanksgiving. As a child I learned that our ancestors were Pilgrims, fleeing hate and intolerance literally to the end of the earth. Almost 400 years ago, in 1620, a few harried souls rode the Mayflower across the Atlantic to find a place where they would be free to worship. They struggled and nearly starved. But the native Americans welcomed them and helped them survive. Those natives are also our ancestors, though we weren’t taught to consider them so. The fruit of the land was abundant. There was hardship, but harmony. A spiritual gulf separated the Pilgrims from the natives, but there was tolerance. And they were thankful.
One hundred and fifty years later, tolerance of diverse beliefs was the very first thing the Founding Fathers put into the Bill of Rights. The First Amendment begins, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof . . . ”
Today we profile the pilgrims.
Can we be patriots, having hidden the torch of liberty and covered the founding stones with baked bricks of national security, capitalism, and so many other -isms? Can a patriot be divorced from his heritage? Can we forget and still be us?
Kids still say the Pledge of Allegiance through fourth grade here. I don’t mind. I don’t mind because they will go on to learn of Adams, Jefferson, and Franklin. Of Liberty, Equality, Justice, Self-determination, Self-government, Toleration, and Freedom of Religion. They will read in our Declaration of Independence that unalienable rights extend to all people, not just citizens. They will understand the value of immigration and how the immigrants are us. They will be proud of the rugged, fiercely independent spirits that forsook all to make their way here and build something new, something that still stands as a beacon of hope to huddled masses. They will see the stones. Then, my America will become their America, and they will pledge their allegiance.