A Burning Question

Patriotism (according to William Collins Publishers’ version of Webster, anyway)
may be loosely defined as the “love and loyal or zealous support of one’s own country.”
I begin with this bland and rather clumsy definition not because I judge the reader a great buffoon
ignorant of the word’s meaning, but in an effort to introduce my feelings on the matter
under at least some pretense of objectivity.

It seems among family, friends and perhaps a half-dozen unsuspecting others I’ve been
frequently reminded of late that my own particularly prickly point of view paints me as one the
least patriotic sons of bitches any of them has yet had the dishonor of knowing on any kind of personal level.
The longer I’ve pondered this observation, the less reason I’ve found to argue with them.

If we're to trust the good folks at William Collins Publishers, a patriot, then, is a man or woman who,
whether loyally or zealously, truly loves his or her country.
Surely there’s no fault in that.

Loyalty's a virtue, after all: the “faithfulness or faithful adherence to a person, government, cause, duty, etc.”
True, there’s no mention of God or one’s own moral barometer in there, but that was probably just an innocent omission.
Zeal is likewise described by William Collins as “intense enthusiasm, as in working for a cause”.
Assemble the pieces and we’ve a male or female who may be accurately described as faithfully adhering to
or enthusiastically working for a cause of the government of a country for which he or she
has great affection and adoration.

If there’s one thing my infrequent monologues around the turkey carcass or beer tap have taught me,
it’s that the quandary of separating love of country from love of government remains an extremely divisive one.
Where some may equate true patriotism with the founding fathers’ struggle for independence from Britain,
others might point to the loyalists’ efforts to maintain the colonies’ allegiance to the crown,
and others still to the individual nations of Native Americans and their valiant battles against imperialist conquerors.
The question of just whose country it is in the first place rarely makes it to the table before someone excuses himself.

Unpopular though it is, my opinion holds that patriotism is a cultural dead end.
If the world’s religions teach us anything, it's the principal of universality: Recognize the divine spark in the other; put his interests before your own.
It’s a tough sell, but an infinitely wise one, I believe.

Whereas patriotism demands and rewards aggression and defense, violence and fear, bigotry and paranoia,
the progressive agnostic and conservative Jehovah’s Witness often share little in common
but their like disregard for misguided virtue, short-sighted greed and popular idolatry.
Unquestioning, blind allegiance to country (or anything else) leaves no room for compassion,
subjectivity or self-determination.

History teaches us that under such conditions did the great nations of Egypt, Greece, Rome, Spain and Germany
follow victory, power and world domination with internal tumult, social rot and, ultimately, implosion.
Each had its share of patriots, monuments and symbols. Now many of these lie in ruin,
scattered to the world’s museums where they serve as broken reminders of omnipotent power gone bust.
I admit I used to be a sucker for that knd of stuff. My bedroom curtains were all flags and eagles,
my desk lamp a Liberty Bell.

Sharing Washington’s birthday and all, by fourth grade I'd read all about Ben Franklin and Thomas Jefferson
and the party in Boston where fake Indians vandalized the limey tea.
These days, I reject the Stars & Stripes as I would a golden calf.
I pledge allegiance to no one, choose not to stand for the National Anthem and refuse to swear,
with or without my hand on the Holy Bible.

Though unpopular, mine is a point of view that has been shared by others throughout the millennia.
Convinced to the end that my position is correct, I’ve developed a series of well-placed callouses
and learned to adapt to the outbursts, emotional debates and threats of physical violence that often result from my voicing it.
While this is not a particularly good time to be a non-patriot, I am determined to be as tenacious and stubborn as my neighbor.

It’s my sincere feeling that we as a nation were long overdue a 9/11. None of us is innocent.
Those are our own guns we're fighting.

A half-century after Hiroshima and Nagasaki, wasn’t the agonizing death
of 3,000 civilians just an extreme example of cosmic chickens coming home to roost?
Is the whole Support-Our-Troops fervor that’s swept our nation over the past couple years somehow ignorant
of the fact that every one of these soldiers volunteered to be shipped oversees to kill other human beings
for a nefarious cause in the first place? Far as I know, there’s no draft yet.
A mercenary is still a mercenary after all, no matter how scared and alone and masturbatory he feels on that desert late at night.

Sometimes you have to buckle down and try to remain confident that just because you’re in the minority
doesn’t mean you’re necessarily wrong.

Patriotism makes me angry. It makes me angry at my parents and my brother, my co-workers and peers.
It makes me angry that they are so utterly egotistical, self-centered and spoiled that they will willfully,
stubbornly, loyally and zealously defend and celebrate the mechanized cycle of greed, exploitation,
poverty and slaughter that benefits our gaudy elite.

I don’t enjoy getting angry. Like Bill Bixby, I don’t like what I become. It’s just gotten to the point where,
once prodded, I refuse to shut up. If you don’t like my answers, be careful what you ask.
After all, what is patriotism at heart but simply a shortcut to self-preservation?

Take your best shot.

I’m practicing my freedom here.