Patriotism usually isn’t my strong suit. A child of the 1960s, and having cut my political teeth on Vietnam War protests, I am too critical and cynical to be out there waving flags. I flat didn’t understand slogans like: My country, right or wrong. “America, love it or leave it,” almost sent me to the ticket counter. Back in my hippie days, though, I didn’t have the coin. I still don’t.
Youth was my time for rebellion, and there was plenty to rebel against. The 1960s social revolution was a perfect storm that distilled and galvanized my attitude toward politics and the powers that governed our nation. It wasn’t that I didn’t like the United States; it was only that the old, white men who ran the place were killing American soldiers in a cause I didn’t understand and couldn’t believe in.
Nor would the bastards let us vote. I found it unconscionable that young men could get drafted and sent to deadly foreign jungles. Yet we couldn’t vote those who sent us there out of office. We had no say in any of it.
I avoided that war by hook and crook. Although I wonder how my life would be different had I gone to Vietnam and survived, I’m not ashamed to admit that I was a draft dodger. Those who have never lived under threat of conscription perhaps cannot understand.
In 1975, the Vietnam War ended. I hadn’t been drafted, killed, maimed or psychologically trashed with post-traumatic stress. I hadn’t been thrown in jail for resisting, and hadn’t surrendered my citizenship and moved to Canada. I still lived in the heart of the mountains I’d chosen as home. I was still young, and I anticipated a good life skiing, hiking and doing the things I had determined would define my life.
My first experience of real patriotic feelings came in 1976 when we celebrated what I remember as a “tri-Centennial.” July 4, 1976 commemorated two hundred years of United States sovereignty, one hundred years of Colorado statehood, and almost one hundred years of Crested Butte existence. Maybe we were pushing the latter by a couple of years, but what the hell. We were high on ending the Vietnam War, and oh, did we party down.
I remember sitting around a big fire in the side lot of the Grubstake—now the renowned Brick Oven—drinking beer and shots, and (gulp) singing patriotic songs. We enjoyed all the patriotic classics, but I remember our rendition of America the Beautiful caused tears to run down my cheeks. That is my first recollection of patriotic zeal that flowed from my heart. Friends and camaraderie on free American soil in Crested Butte…I will never forget.
Flash forward.
I have enjoyed the advantages of that free American soil into my adult years. Although I might be hard-pressed to call it outright patriotism, I am grateful for my freedoms, and with notable exceptions, I am proud to be an American.
Notable exceptions, however, can be a patriotic buzz-kill. For example, I sat to write this Fourth of July missive during each of the last eight years, and I found it difficult. While the attacks of 9-11 stirred my American blood, our government’s thoughtless and illegal incursion into Iraq shamed me. The rest of the world vilified and disrespected us. Worse, had we not been perceived as thoughtless and dangerous by the world community, we appeared a swaggering laughingstock.
It was difficult for me to sit down at the keyboard and write about how great a nation we enjoyed. The words choked in my throat; keystrokes wouldn’t come. Since I had nothing good and patriotic to say on the Fourth of July, I figured I ought to shut the hell up. I tried my best, though, to put lipstick on the pig. Damn, it was an ugly pig!
While the pig has become more comely, there are still American soldiers in harm’s way in Iraq and Afghanistan. To these men and women I extend words and feelings of gratitude and respect. Although these folks weren’t conscripted into service, when they volunteered they probably had no idea about Islamic fascists, car bombs, suicide bombers, improvised explosive devices and the rest. Now they do.
My patriotic heart goes out to families who must welcome back to American soil only a flag-covered box. I respect the men and women whose lives have been forever altered by disfigurement and amputation. These are our friends and neighbors, Americans like us who paid a terrible price at our nation’s bidding.
To these folks, I can only say thank you for your service. To them, and to the rest of us, I wish a heartfelt and patriotic Happy Birthday America.
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