It's hard now to remember what that was like. Try. Remember what it was like to walk down your street during summer vacation and see a flag outside someone's window? It always gave me a warm feeling, hard to describe, but a sense that me and the person behind that door had something in common. If you'd asked us if we were patriots, we would have been confused by the question. Of course we were. Who wasn't? We had a deep, abiding love for our country that was simple, non-nationalistic, the same way reasonable people feel about their baseball team. Yours is good, maybe, but ours is better. No insult, just confidence.
Of course things are different now. The flag and its colors have been stolen by people whose goal is not inclusion but exclusion. Now, instead of settling our differences, we hold grudges against each other, question whether people who disagree with us are aiding the Official Enemy of the Hour, and define our America as the kind of walled-in neighborhood where everyone stays inside their big, cookie-cutter house and huddles for protection behind their 'privacy' fence. Posted: No trespassing, no homosexuals, no questioning, and no friendly dissent.
Clint's Notebook - Remember Patriotism?
“I came back for my own purposes,” said the Time Traveler, looking around my booklined study. “I chose you to talk to because it was . . . convenient. And I don’t want you to do a goddamned thing. There’s nothing you can do. But relax . . . we’re not going to be talking about personal things. Such as, say, the year, day, and hour of your death. I don’t even know that sort of trivial information, although I could look it up quickly enough. You can release that white-knuckled grip you have on the edge of your desk.” I tried to relax. “What do you want to talk about?” I said. “The Century War,” said the Time Traveler. I blinked and tried to remember some history. “You mean the Hundred Year War? Fifteenth Century? Fourteenth? Sometime around there. Between . . . France and England? Henry V? Kenneth Branagh? Or was it . . .” “I mean the Century War with Islam,” interrupted the Time Traveler. “Your future. Everyone’s.” He was no longer smiling. Without asking, or offering to pour me any, he ...
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