mixed heritage

 

Patriotism was bred into me like faith. My hero was my uncle, who fought the “bad guys” in the Middle East. My other heroes were the founding fathers, creators of government for the people and by the people, who rebelled against tyranny at the risk of their own lives. I come from people who crossed the plains and mountains in search of a better life, and who found it. I loved the USA, convinced I lived in the best country on earth, and convinced that God had blessed America. 

But children grow up, and we learn fuller stories. I started to notice that “all men created equal” had left out the women, the slaves, the indigenous people. Hadn’t just left them out, but had built its foundation on ground full of mass graves. I learned that yes, there were “bad guys” in the Middle East, but there were children in other countries - and in our own -  who saw America as the “bad guys” when we destroyed their homes, families, sometimes their entire civilizations. I come also from people whose land was taken, who are shut on the other side of previously non-existent borders, who are shot in grocery stores in El Paso. 

My inner horror felt like heresy. But that horror taught me that while my allegiance was not pledged to the flag, it still cried for liberty and justice for all. 

So on a day like today, I am torn between my heritage of freedom and justice, and my heritage of oppression and devastation. Both present. Both waving together, like red and white stripes. Red with the blood of both those who served and those who were slaughtered. White for the hope of freedom, for the pure intentions of many who did wrong. 

Like faith, my patriotism changes, learns, opens, grows more humble, sometimes nearly disappears altogether. I am one who struggles to wave an American flag, but who still cries at the words of the Declaration or the swelling of the anthem. I, like my country, am not one story. I, like my country, am of mixed heritage.