American Shame

Reflections on my homeland and what I think it means to be a patriot.

Patriotism. A word I often cringe at, a word that, all my life, that has evoked a gross feeling within me. When you think of American patriotism, you see red, white, and blue, you see troops, you see smiley white faces of people who live in flyover states. You imagine the fat, slimy, lying politicians and their mean constituents. You imagine stupidity. At least, that is what I used to think of when I heard the word, and most people in my family shared the sentiment. Patriotism to us meant celebrating imperialism and slavery, and all the things that history teachers get nervous to talk about in classrooms. And all the things they don’t talk about.

It seems like every other day, I’m learning new information about this place that just fucking baffles me. Whether it’s old history or history in the making, it seems completely unbelievable. Comepletely abbhorent. There is something now that feels almost shameful about calling myself an American. To the international world, I’m sorry, and yes, I am embarrassed as hell. Angry as hell.

It’s probably a common feeling. How can you be proud of a country that has built itself on the destruction of so many other people? Is that something to celebrate? Is patriotism celebrating the ugly history of our nation as well as ignoring it? Can I ever really be proud to be an American?

So now I must confess something shameful: I love my country. There is a small voice in the back of my mind booing me as I say this, but unfortunately, it’s true. I love being a loud, obnoxious, aggressive, prideful, and opinionated American. I don’t love America because of its history, politics, or power. No, I love it for all the things that this administration and its followers are so hell bent on destroying.

I love that I hear 50 different languages when I walk down the street. I love the Sierras in the west and the Appalachians in the east. I love the hot, muggy south and the cold, snowy north. I love the buzz of cicadas in the summer and the cooing of mourning doves. I love the deep and moving melodies of the blues, and the laid-back twang of country music. I love PBS. I love the strangers who ask you questions on the subway and the artists on the street who so graciously share their work with us. I love free little libraries and people who go to town hall meetings. I love seeing rainbow flags hanging from the buildings. I love seeing protests and hearing the chants of caring and angry Americans- they should be angry. I love our diversity. I love our people.

I am constantly impressed and motivated by the ordinary people who have changed the world because they were loud, proud, caring Americans. We have won gold medals, flown to the moon, made incredible scientific discoveries, and continue to do so, not because of our government and policies but because of the one simple and truly American principle: Do not tell me that I cannot achieve it. From the beginning, this country has been founded on the principle of sticking your middle finger to the man who tries to stop you and keeping that finger up as you prove him wrong. The very essence of independence. The very nature of freedom.

I think I have discovered that being patriotic does not mean celebrating or ignoring the atrocities, it is about acknowledging them and fighting - obnoxiously and loudly- to never repeat them. It is a promise to do better. Patriotism to me is about making this country the place I was promised it would be when I was a child: a place for everyone to come and achieve the impossible. I was raised on “this is the melting pot of the world,” and I will fight to keep that true.

I have felt such disappointment in my country. She’s not the place I remember, or maybe she is, and I just didn’t know her well enough. Either way, there is a deep need within me to stay with her, to keep her on her feet, to help her. I know I’m not the only one. I know I’m not alone in my shame.

Now I step out of the confession booth, fraught with shame, and anticipate the tomato throwing and the booing. Every day further into this presidential administration, it gets easier to say “fuck this place, it’s gone to shit, it was always shit, and I can’t wait for it to just collapse.” And that is valid. I often feel that way too. But then I hear the birds call and the mountains sing and the people cry, and I have this urge to save it all. I think that urge comes from patriotism, and that patriotism comes from love, and that love is for my land and my neighbors. My home.