Respect the Flag

My Parents' tombstone

Yesterday was the 4^th of July.   Hands down—next to Christmas, this is my favorite holiday.   I love the whole schmaltzy red, white and blue of it.   Nothing about it can be too traditional or too small town.  I like to start the day with a parade—not the fancy ones, but with kind with  kids on their red, white and blue crepe papered bikes,  dogs with bows & Uncle Sam hats being led by cute boys and girls,  the fire trucks & volunteer firemen blowing the siren & throwing candy to everyone.  The 4^th of July is hot dogs, hamburgers, corn on the cob, home grown tomatoes and homemade ice cream.   End the day with fireworks and ooohs and aaahhhhs.  Best holiday!

For years I have decorated our yard with flags.   If I can put red, white or blue on it, I do.  And this year was no different . . . except . . .

This year was no different except someone I don’t really know, a Facebook acquaintance, felt it was her duty to inform me that I do not respect the American flag.   Not just once, but three times.  I chose yesterday to ignore it.   I responded once privately (& nicely and respectfully) that her perception was not correct.  I thought that was the end, but this person chose to also make comments publically again during the day.  I said a prayer & ate chocolate.

Not respect the American flag?  Because as it blows in the wind over my flower bed, a corner might touch a raised flower?

Ma’am:    I “respect” the flag because of the freedom it stands for.   I do not salute the flag because of some “Hitler-ish” “I must” respect the flag and someone says I should.   I respect the flag for what it means to me.

I respect the flag because of the veterans in my family.   From my father and uncle to my Vietnam veteran husband and brother-in-law to my nephew now serving.   My father-in-law lost an eye fighting for freedom in a country dear to me, my second home growing up—Korea.  He fittingly died on the 4^th of July.    I didn’t grow up in a small town or really any town.   I grew up on military bases where every single day I saw the sacrifices my friends’ families and my own family were making for freedom and what the American flag stands for.   On my way to school (on a U.S. Army bus), we played “hot potato” not as a game, but so we would be prepared to throw a grenade out the window of our bus—because it could happen at any time.

I’ve held the hand of a soldier who was dying and couldn’t make it home from Vietnam, I’ve represented the United States’ teenagers (and the freedom we represent to “be ourselves”) performing with U.S. Army bands and the USO.   My father missed my senior year of high school and my high school graduation because he was in Vietnam.   

My point:  I know what the American flag stands and the freedom it represents.  It means I can go to the church of my choice and openly, without fear, worship and praise my God.   It means I can work and live where I wish, freely coming and going about my day.  And placing it in my yard every year for one day is part of that respect. 

Respect the flag?   Respect the flag less than you?   Many things you might say—but there’s evidently a flag pole in your eye.