Bring out the Bunting!

Ours is not a particularly patriotic clan. We are not a particularly religious family either, though we count some of each in our ranks, and have no quarrel with patriots or believers.

As several times in recent years, some among our members have remarked they do not feel there is much to celebrate this year. For those who lean left, Independence Days of late come fresh on the heels of horrors from the Supreme Court. For a family that finds Donald Trump’s comportment to be disqualifying, his supporters to be appalling, and his policies to be distressing, early Julys of late have brought disquiet and foreboding.

And yet, we decorate for the occasion.

At my family’s ranch where we gather, there is a rule: American flags and bunting should be as liberally distributed in the week leading up to Independence Day as holly and mistletoe in the days leading up to Christmas. We must do this regardless of the state of the nation, and without taking the transient temperature of our own feelings about the Republic.

We welcome Peter Cottontail each Easter, but do not all associate his happy, sugary arrival with the Resurrection. We delight in the Thanksgiving feast each November without adding our names to the Mayflower Compact. The Jewish side of the clan lights the Menorah each December, even if we think the Seleucids were probably more “our kind of people” than the Maccabees.

And each early July, we festoon ourselves and the property in the colors of the flag, and we recount stories of our ancestors who fought in the Revolution, and I try yet again unsuccessfully to get everyone to sing just one verse of “Columbia, Gem of the Ocean.” (It is the best of our patriotic songs.)

Delight in tradition is not the same as assent to all that those traditions represent. It is neither embrace nor rejection: it is celebration for celebration’s sake. It welcomes both the ardent jingoist and the anguished critic to the party.

It is also important to remember that one can love something without making a universal moral claim about it.

Patriotism, to me, is like loving one’s child. I want everyone’s little llamas to be safe and happy, but I’m particularly focused on Heloise and David.

If I say, “I love the USA more than any nation,” it’s akin to saying, “I love my children more than anything else.”

If I say, “My kids are the best,” you’re not likely to take offense. If a gentleman were to say, “My wife is the most beautiful woman in the world,” you would be unlikely to challenge his assertion even if you do not share his view. (It would be better, I suspect, if you do not share his view.) The same principle is true if I celebrate my dear America more than, say, Argentina or Australia or Azerbaijan.

If I say, “I think America is the greatest nation on earth” I am convinced it’s not much different from declaring that, “I think my children are the most wonderful children in the world.” It’s an obviously subjective claim couched in universal terms, but everyone understands the latter is relative. They might consider doing so with the former. My child might be taller than yours, and yours might have better grades, and we might be able to measure their attributes just as we can measure the relative GNPs of the USA and Uzbekistan, but comparison in these matters is beside the point.

I note too that one can love a thing unconditionally and still point out its flaws. I am a beloved son. I am the Black Sheep of my people. My shortcomings are well-known. My loved ones have no illusions about me, and they love me anyway. My flaws do not become reasons to withdraw affection or devotion. They still sing “happy birthday” to me despite my mistakes and failures, and I am grateful. Surely, it is so with other things. Like countries.

One can believe that all nations matter and all children are good and all Black Sheep are redeemable, — and, for that matter, all alma maters worthy — and still love your country, your kids, your old school, and your ne’er-do-well relations with just a bit more intensity.

Whatever your views on the 248-year-old, fragile, and contentious American experiment, may those who honor it have a very happy and joyous Fourth.