I have never been one to go all out for the 4th
of July. Perhaps it was my childhood fear of fireworks that, let’s be frank,
continues to this day. Perhaps it was that my family never placed much of an
emphasis on this day, and it fell in with the rest of the summer cookouts that,
while pleasant, failed to register as significant. Or perhaps it is that I have
never felt extraordinarily patriotic. I am not one to accessorize with American
flags or plaster my car with red, white, and blue bumper stickers, and that has
always made me feel like less of an American than those who wear their
admiration of America quite literally on their sleeve (or lapel, for the
politicians among us).
This thought has been with me lately: what is patriotism? I
have found it difficult to call myself a patriot because I don’t think this is
the greatest nation on earth. My appreciation for this country has always been
tempered by the realization that there are other wonderful places on this
earth, and that we still have many problems to resolve. I don’t fit in with the
group that have staked their claim on the title “patriot”. But just because I’m
not wearing rose-colored glasses doesn’t mean I don’t love this country. My
love is just more complex and subtle. Like all relationships, it has its ups
and its downs, but there is something deep and abiding that keeps me loyal.
