serum114
08-17-2009, 10:47 PM
I LOVE TO BURN THE FLAG
by Neal Pollack
ONE BEAUTIFUL SUMMER DAY, when I was ten years old, my father called me outside. He was barbecuing ribs in the backyard.
"Son," he said, "there's something I want to give you."
Dad handed me a long cardboard box. I opened it to find a full-sized handmade American flag inside. I pressed it against my face. It felt soft and fresh.
"Dad," I gasped. "This is…incredible!"
"Read the note," he said.
Attached to the box was a little card. "Throw the flag on the grill," it read.
"Very funny, Dad," I said.
"I'm serious, son," he said. "I want you to put the flag on the barbecue."
"But…" I said. "The flag will burn!"
"That's the point," he said.
"I can't burn the flag! It's the symbol of everything our country stands for! My ancestors fought and died for this flag! It represents the hopes and dreams of—"
"Save the grade-school propaganda for later," Dad said. "And do what I say…"
Tears in my eyes, I placed the Star Spangled Banner over the burning coals. Soon, it was completely aflame, red-white-and-blue consumed in a blistering blaze of orange.
Dad had his hand over his heart. He was softly humming God Bless America.
"That's what this country is all about," he said. "That flag is worth nothing if a man can't burn it in his own backyard. It is a sacred American right."
I stared at the wisps of smoke coming off the grill in wonder, and in my heart, knew my dad was right.
After that, my family barbecued at least one flag every year, and I grew to love the ritual. Sometimes the stars would ignite first, sometimes the stripes. Sometimes, the whole thing would go up in a blaze of Old Glory. When it was all done, we'd have a picnic of burgers, fresh corn and cole slaw and laugh well into the night. One summer, all our neighbors came over with their own flags and we had a big community flag bonfire, melting marshmallows over the flames and making s'mores while "Disco Inferno" played on the hi-fi.
When I left home and went to college, I started burning my own flags. My friends and I would spend hours listening to jazz, talking about Russian novels, and burning flags in our dorm rooms. We developed an affectation of wearing tri-cornered hats colored like the flag, and lighting them on fire in the cafeteria.
I became politically active and joined several radical organizations. But when these groups to which I belonged would burn a flag in protest of some U.S. foreign policy or another, my stomach would churn. To me, flag-burning was a private, family affair. It was about friendship and trust. I didn't want it sullied by vitriol, however justified, about the Reagan Administration's incursions into Central America.
Now I hear Republicans in Congress are again threatening to deny Americans one of their most cherished freedoms—burning the flag. I think about my father, older now but still dedicated to crisping a flag in the backyard at least once a year. I think about how I want to raise a family of my own, how I want my sons and daughters to know the pleasure of burning a flag along with their dad. Most of all, I think about the millions of Americans, young and old, rich and poor, black and white, who love burning the flag as much as I do. I urge our senators and congressmen to think about my story before they vote yes for a Constitutional amendment to ban flag-burning. Please don't hurt America's families. Please don't take away our sacred right.
I'll always remember what my father said to me that summer afternoon so many years ago. "Son," he said, his voice constricting into a sob, "there's only one thing more American than burning a flag…and that's choking a bald eagle with your bare hands."
by Neal Pollack
ONE BEAUTIFUL SUMMER DAY, when I was ten years old, my father called me outside. He was barbecuing ribs in the backyard.
"Son," he said, "there's something I want to give you."
Dad handed me a long cardboard box. I opened it to find a full-sized handmade American flag inside. I pressed it against my face. It felt soft and fresh.
"Dad," I gasped. "This is…incredible!"
"Read the note," he said.
Attached to the box was a little card. "Throw the flag on the grill," it read.
"Very funny, Dad," I said.
"I'm serious, son," he said. "I want you to put the flag on the barbecue."
"But…" I said. "The flag will burn!"
"That's the point," he said.
"I can't burn the flag! It's the symbol of everything our country stands for! My ancestors fought and died for this flag! It represents the hopes and dreams of—"
"Save the grade-school propaganda for later," Dad said. "And do what I say…"
Tears in my eyes, I placed the Star Spangled Banner over the burning coals. Soon, it was completely aflame, red-white-and-blue consumed in a blistering blaze of orange.
Dad had his hand over his heart. He was softly humming God Bless America.
"That's what this country is all about," he said. "That flag is worth nothing if a man can't burn it in his own backyard. It is a sacred American right."
I stared at the wisps of smoke coming off the grill in wonder, and in my heart, knew my dad was right.
After that, my family barbecued at least one flag every year, and I grew to love the ritual. Sometimes the stars would ignite first, sometimes the stripes. Sometimes, the whole thing would go up in a blaze of Old Glory. When it was all done, we'd have a picnic of burgers, fresh corn and cole slaw and laugh well into the night. One summer, all our neighbors came over with their own flags and we had a big community flag bonfire, melting marshmallows over the flames and making s'mores while "Disco Inferno" played on the hi-fi.
When I left home and went to college, I started burning my own flags. My friends and I would spend hours listening to jazz, talking about Russian novels, and burning flags in our dorm rooms. We developed an affectation of wearing tri-cornered hats colored like the flag, and lighting them on fire in the cafeteria.
I became politically active and joined several radical organizations. But when these groups to which I belonged would burn a flag in protest of some U.S. foreign policy or another, my stomach would churn. To me, flag-burning was a private, family affair. It was about friendship and trust. I didn't want it sullied by vitriol, however justified, about the Reagan Administration's incursions into Central America.
Now I hear Republicans in Congress are again threatening to deny Americans one of their most cherished freedoms—burning the flag. I think about my father, older now but still dedicated to crisping a flag in the backyard at least once a year. I think about how I want to raise a family of my own, how I want my sons and daughters to know the pleasure of burning a flag along with their dad. Most of all, I think about the millions of Americans, young and old, rich and poor, black and white, who love burning the flag as much as I do. I urge our senators and congressmen to think about my story before they vote yes for a Constitutional amendment to ban flag-burning. Please don't hurt America's families. Please don't take away our sacred right.
I'll always remember what my father said to me that summer afternoon so many years ago. "Son," he said, his voice constricting into a sob, "there's only one thing more American than burning a flag…and that's choking a bald eagle with your bare hands."