What Is Patriotism?

I wrote this essay for a writing contest hosted by Hot Psychology magazine back in 2007. It took 2nd place.

My views have changed just a little bit since then, but since I just returned from vacation (a fantastic, long weekend in Ft. Myers), I thought it'd be okay to cheat a little, and repost this today, in honor of Independence Day. Happy 4th everyone!

I was working on my writing degree in 2001, teaching preschool at “Love ‘N Laugher” in the morning for extra income. It was a small school, 60 families in an 80-year old home that the owner had converted into a preschool. White brick with little red awnings, sidewalk chalk up and down the driveway, clapboard fence surrounding a happy playground filled with swings, slides and running toddlers. It was quaint. Cozy. Safe. One of a million little schoolhouses all over the world.

Once the children were down for their nap, the afternoon teacher would relieve me, and I’d head to my own classes. Universities tend to lean left, politically, and at the time, I was married to a right-wing Republican. I never had much opinion on political matters. Instead I tended to let my husband sway me, just as our parents’ beliefs sway us in our youth. Once I went back to school for my bachelor’s though, I became a little more opinionated. Maybe it was the University environment, maybe it was the strain on my marriage, maybe I was finally finding my voice, and over time, confidence in that voice. Whatever it was, I felt more and more compassion for the soldiers, and less and less for the government – ours or anyone else’s.

July 4 was always a favorite of the preschoolers at Love N Laughter. The kids celebrated by waving little American flags, singing “patriotic” songs and creating “firework” art by throwing paint-drenched Koosh balls at black construction paper. I can remember walking into the little school house the morning of September 11, 2001, a weary eye on the sky, half expecting to see fighter jets flying overhead. I can remember wondering if there were preschool teachers walking into little schoolhouse in Iraq, or Cuba, or Vietnam that morning. What makes us different from any of them? Surely they were familiar with the fear of the unknown, as I was for the first time that morning.

I can’t imagine anyone talking or writing about Patriotism without mentioning 9/11 in some way. Pre-9/11 America and Post-9/11 America. Of course, most would say that, as a country, we are much more “patriotic” now.

But what does that mean? Because our country was attacked in such a massive, public, horrifying way, that we suddenly became more proud of our country? Willing to fight back? We got flag happy, I think. We rallied around the troops, the government, and the “war on terror." These aren’t bad things, of course, but it did feel very “Republican."

If patriotism is this simple, why does it always seem to be a political issue? If we are against the “war on terror” then we’re not patriotic. If we’re all for it – we’re murdering, war lovers. What if patriotism is just about having that sense of peace within us that somehow things will be okay? What if it’s just about waving that little flag and smiling as you walk past a stranger – sharing a common bond – even for just that day.
It’s our right as Americans – born in a free country – to choose our politics. Are we Republican or Democrat? Do we back the president, or back away? Whichever way we lean politically – we should be proud that we have that right. We should be grateful for the opportunity to choose and speak out without fear. Why fight with the leftist next door because you’re right wing? Be glad that both of you have respect and love enough for your country to use your rights. Be patriotic – and smile at the opposing team – just for today.

That first 4th of July – 2002 – was a big one for our country. But things at Love ‘N Laughter were exactly as they’d been for the past 19 July 4th celebrations. Same little flags, same paint-smattered little hands, same smiles, giggles, shouts.

That little school house hasn’t changed in the last six years. There is still no lock on the front door. No iron gates at the end of the driveway. No metal detectors or rent-a-cops.
It is still the same, peaceful, cozy place it was pre-9/11. One small sign that maybe we really our patriotic – we really do believe in our peace. Is it naïve? Maybe. But it’s American. How patriotic is that?

iPhones and Margaritas

The first iPhone came out four years ago.

Hard to believe it's only been four years.

And I, a proud iPhone owner, ever since.

A gift from my parents for my 35th birthday.

Since then, I've replaced it once (after it took a swim in the toilet) and upgraded it once (to the 3GS). I've been holding onto this one until the new 5 comes out, and don't mind saying that I've done a swell job of keeping it away from water (especially after ingesting multiple margaritas) and in it's protective case.

The case is something, isn't it? The new iPhones are so much slimmer than the first ones were four years ago. Artistic and futuristic in design - slim, shiny, with rounded corners. Fits into the back pocket of your jeans just perfectly (hence the drop into the toilet). Then you go and put a clunky, plastic cover on it to keep it pristine. To protect it from falls on the concrete, scratches from the car keys in your purse (mind you, they have not come out with a fully waterproof option. Yet. ). But I digress...

The iPhone/Toilet Fiasco, as I affectionately refer to it, went something like this:

I have had a few (3) margaritas. I'm free to admit that, as a card-carrying member of the 21+ set. It's a Saturday night. I'm not driving. Anyway, my new iPhone is resting comfortably in the back pocket of my Lucky brand jeans. I run to the bathroom to, well, to return some of the margaritas, and..."Ker-Plunk" - my phone drops into the toilet before I even have a chance to sit down.

I scream.

Being a brand new device, I was not yet aware that kitty litter might be my saving grace (and even if I'd had this tidbit of knowledge, I don't own a cat...). Fast forward to the following morning...

Head down, tail between my legs, I sulk into the Apple store and, surrounded by co-eds, wait my turn. My Genius comes over and asks me how he can help me. I hold out my phone, and as he is about to take it from me, I mumble something about dropping it into the toilet. He withdraws his hand like it has just been lit on fire.

"Umm..okay," he says to me, "Was there...anything...in the toilet? When you, uhh...dropped it?

"NO." This very enthusiastically. Proud, almost. Whew! I think.

The throng of college students turns and looks, horrifically, in my direction. Genius takes the phone gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, holding it out in front of him like a piece of moldy cheese (I did say, "no" there was nothing in the toilet, didn't I?)

He asks me to have a seat on the stool and wait just a moment while he tests the phone.

A few moments later he is back. Takes the stool next to mine, scoots it closer. Takes my hands in his. "It doesn't look good."

I am reminded of a scene from E.R. We lost the patient (in this case, my iPhone), and had it quickly replaced (as is possible with electronic devices).

But I digress...

It's been four years since the first iPhone. Much has changed since then. Not just for Apple, but for me, as well. (But I will not digress again.) I'm still loyal to the brand. Without my iPhone I would be lost (quite literally sometimes, without mapquest). More than a phone, it's my address book, my connection to my friends, and most importantly, my kids. It's my photo album, music player, video maker and player, my social media touchpoint (I post and tweet almost exclusively from it), my calorie counter, my shopping list keeper...I could go on (I won't).

If it would only clean the house. But maybe there's an app for that.

Tiny Hypocrisies .... Big Truths

OpenSalon.com has a call out for essays on the topic: Tiny Hypocrisies.

Got one?

I certainly do. The "tiny" part, I'm not so sure of...but the Hypocrisy's true enough. One in particular. But damn, do I struggle with the truth. Only as a writer, mind you.

I pride myself on being a very honest person. Maybe that's because I don't lie well (not since I was sixteen, anyway...I had a knack for it back then). My hands get clammy, my face turns red, I stutter...If I could lie well, I have to admit that I wouldn't be so honest. See? There I go again!

But I digress. Truth is the crux of a writer's world. Truth is what makes the words come alive, the emotions jump off the page...it's what gives our essays and stories soul.

And here is my struggle: as a writer, how much do I reveal? Some writers are just so good at it (Chris Cleave comes to mind). Some writers can throw down the deepest, darkest secrets with such...confidence (Jean Whatley comes to mind) that it can not be denied. You don't read writing like that and think, "Can you believe that? Where are that woman's morals for God's sake!"

Why is it that I am always checking this moral compass of mine? If it's not pointing due North, if I've told even the tiniest of white lies, I can't so much as look in the mirror. What the hell is that?

Catholicism.

Right.

But again, I digress. One of my college writing instructors (Steve Lattimore) once told me that the best stories are ones where the writer puts the protagonist up in a tree, throws rocks at him, and then gets him down. Well, in this "tiny hypocrisy" I am the protagonist. I certainly found myself up in a tree. And the rocks? They hurt.

But what Prof. Lattimore didn't tell me, was what happens to the protagonist once he climbs down from that tree. Do all the other people in all the other trees look down on him for having gotten himself up there in the first place? Should I care? As my grandmother used to say (I imagine she still might, if the situation called for it), "Pobody's Nerfect."

Pobody's Nerfect. There ya go.

Happy Father's Day...In Honor of My Dad

This Father’s Day, I’m posting my first published essay, “True Measure of a Man,” in honor of my dad (that's him in the picture, teaching me how to sail). This was published in the June 2007 issue of Hot Psychology (a now-defunct, online magazine). It was a really proud moment for me during a very difficult time in my life.

Thanks Dad. For providing the inspiration that started it all, and giving me a very bright moment during a mostly otherwise dark time.

I’ve been writing (and occasionally publishing) essays and articles since this one back in 2007, so I’ve learned a thing or two. The editor in me wants desperately to take a red sharpie to this piece, to cut, refine and polish. But I will resist that urge. Because even with the extra words, and sometimes too-long sentences, the emotion is there. And that, I think, is what’s important. So I ask you, reader, to forgive me my grammatical errors, long-windedness and journalistic faux pas and just…enjoy the read.

In “Measure of a Man,” Sidney Poitier describes a man who is aware of his heritage, connected to his roots, hungry for what lies ahead, disciplined, struggling, never taking short cuts, stubborn, defensive and proud, with deeply-seated morals that he will under no circumstances forgo. Not once does he say that you can measure a man by the broadness of his shoulders, the fierceness in his tone, the words he chooses to cut others to the quick. A man cannot be measured by his bank account, or by the size of his house. His power does not lie in the number of cylinders in the car he drives, or in the number of people who will concede to his wishes.

So what is a man? And how can I raise my sons, nine and seven, to be the kind of man Sidney describes so very simply, yet with such conviction in his latest book. I am a woman and a mom, but I know a man of immense measure.

My father is tall and thin. He never lifted weights, doesn’t drive a Hemi. Works with computers, loves math, savors a good book and would choose a glass of port the size of a thimble over a 12oz Budweiser. But I can guarantee you that he is as much a man – more maybe - as any tough guy in a tank top or hot rod. How do I know this? It is not in the set of his shoulders or in the strength of his arms. It is not in the firm discipline of my youth.

The measure of this man – my father – is as deep as the love reflected in his clear, brown eyes. I know it just as I know that if I close my eyes I can see his hands, peppered with freckles. Feel the strength and warmth of his fingers, strong and kind, closing over mine. His measure is in his actions. It is in his quiet understanding of my need to make mistakes and learn from them, and his constant belief in my dreams. It is in the almost imperceptible nod of his head when he hears of a job well done.

It is in each memory made between us – father and daughter.

I am four years old. The first notes of ‘My Girl’ flow from the radio and I dash across the room to Daddy, step onto his polished shoes and he twirls me around the room singing the words. “What can make me feel this way? My Girl,” he sings to me. I am his dance partner – His girl.

I am a seven year old beauty operator, my favorite customer in the chair before me. Dad sits tall and quiet while I ‘cut’ and style his hair. “What color would you like today, sir?” I ask him. “Hmmm,” he says in a serious tone, “I think I’ll try green this time.” I erupt in a fit of giggles and proceed to ‘wash and color’ his locks.

I am an eleven year old pre-teen, angry and confused. I have skipped school and am now at my father’s apartment, facing my sentence. He sits on the floor, a partly-finished puzzle laid out on the coffee table before him. He does not scold or discipline, but explains gently, as we fit the pieces in, one by one, why sometimes moms and dads just can’t live together.

I am a fourteen year old, struggling student kneeling on the floor next to my math tutor who explains the same algebra problem for the sixth time. When I finally, finally understand it, Dad leans back in his chair with pride in his eyes. “Now you’ve got it,” he says with a grin.

Dad has a reputation to uphold, a legacy to pass on to my children now. I observe him quietly and watch with pleasure each time my daughter pats the floor next to her, and invites Papa to join her in play. I measure his greatness as he grants her wish and folds himself into the space beside her.

I watch as he sits across from my oldest son, deep in concentration, waiting to make his next move on the chess board, and then smiles widely as his grandson proclaims “Check Mate!”

My heart swells as I watch my seven year old climb into my father’s lap just as he did when he was a toddler, to read his favorite book. “This time I’LL read, Papa,” my son says. “NO WAY,” my dad proclaims in awe and holds him just a little tighter as he listens.

This is the measure of a man. These are the lessons I will pass to my sons, who will someday, God willing, be good, humble, kind, loving men of quiet strength and strong conviction. Men like my dad.

He has already begun to leave an impression on my boys.

When my nine-year old lifts his baby sister up into his bed to snuggle and read her a book, I see my father.

When my seven year old rushes to her side after she takes a tumble in the grass, I see my father.

Without so much as a lecture he is teaching them what it means to be a man. He knows the value of actions and just how trite spoken words can be, especially when those words contradict the actions. I watch him cover their small hands with his big, freckled ones and know that those are the hands of a man who is not afraid. Not afraid to love, to be himself, to stand up when it’s needed, and back down when it’s not.

Kindness, understanding, patience, gentleness - these are the measures of a true man.

The Versatile Blogger

A few days ago, my good friend (and very talented writer), Linda (Please check out her blog, here) awarded me with the Versatile Blogger Award. So it goes, that I am tasked with revealing seven things about myself, link back to her and pass on to seven others.

Doesn't sound too difficult, right? But every time I sat down to write this blog, I got stuck. Seven things. True things (that makes it harder). You'd think I could handle this. The problem is that nothing about me is that interesting. Really. And those of you who know me already know these things. Those of you who don't know me...well, do you really care about these things? Nevertheless, an Award is an Award...and I accepted! So, here goes...

#1 I have owned 17 different cars in the past 22 years

#2 My first semester of college at UMSL, I earned a .25 GPA (yes, the decimal is in the right place). I finally went back and earned my BA when I was 32 (and pregnant with my third child).

I graduated with Honors and a 3.6.

#3 I have an affinity for antique typewriters, and started collecting when I found my first

last year.

#4 I love theater, and saw my first

Broadway show (Jersey Boys) last year.

#5 At the top of my Bucket List, is a trip to

Paris (I daydreamed about it here).

#6 When I transferred to Webster U from the community college, I had thought I wanted to be

a teacher. A meeting with the Dean of the Education Dept. proved to me that this was not,

in fact, my calling. 30 years old and lost, I met with an Advisor who asked me, "What

is it you like to do?" My Answer: "Well, I

love to write, but you can't major in Writing."

She answered simply, "Yes you can!" I

signed up on the spot and walked out of the

building smiling and crying. One of the

best days of my life.

#7 I do not like coming up with seven facts about myself. This was hard!