Taking Back Our Flag

Photo: a slowly unfurling American flag braves the snow on a winter morning. The flag, high atop a flagpole, is surrounded by bare trees and framed on the left by an evergreen powdered with snow. With red for courage, blue for justice and white for innocence, the Stars and Stripes means different things to different people. 

     There is something inherently powerful about the symbols of America - the vivid crimson, white and navy of our stars and stripes rippled by a steady wind across a summer-blue sky, the majesty of a bird of prey with a pure white head and tail, and a terrifyingly sharp golden beak. The strains of our "O, say can you see" over loudspeakers at games and festivals; the monuments of our national heroes - Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, and King.

    When I came to the US, I was five years old and starting kindergarten. I memorized the Pledge of Allegiance in school, learning to hold my hand over my heart while I recited it along with the other kids in my class. Then, as a teenager, recognizing that, though I was outwardly different from the other kids, I could also sport a US flag sticker on my bookbag or as a decal on my first car. I felt a love for this country, though it is not the one of my ancestry, nor the one of my birth.

    For my parents, mainly my father - who was the one who expressed his patriotism wholeheartedly and avidly supported the country they had chosen to emigrate to, America signaled the freedom to do as you wished. They came here for the standard of education, for the spirit of capitalism which said you could have anything you wanted if you worked hard enough for it. They left behind everything they knew to forge a new identity for their young family, in a place where - though foreign and sometimes excluding them, they could realize their wants and dreams through steady determination and unflagging temperance. 

    Even as a young adult and a parent, I would still get misty-eyed at the sight of a waving flag over a night sky bursting with fireworks. America was a country, but also a concept. America was the melting pot where people from all over the world could pool their resources to the common good and that would take care of them when times got hard. I finally got my US citizenship at the age of 30, after living in the US for 25 years, long after my own parents had become citizens, after I had married an American, and had two American children. I wept on that warm day in San Antonio, Texas, dressed in a crisp blue dress with large white polka dots and holding a rolled up piece of parchment that was supposed to be my certificate of citizenship. I wept because it felt like the country I had pledged to had finally opened its arms to accept me.

    The more I learned about life, the world, and my country, I began to see the cracks in the veneer: the flag covered all manner of sins. It shrouded the evils of enslavement, it buffeted through gales of discrimination and oppression. I began to see the flag as the Native Peoples would have seen it. I felt the waves of unjust treatment of undocumented immigrants whose only crime was being born too many miles to the south, or too many years after the border between countries encroached on the ancestral lands that weren't theirs any longer.

    I learned that the Civil Rights movement was not a granting of fair access, but a hard-fought battle to wrench back entitlements that were somehow taken. I learned that the reason I did not know, as a full-grown adult, the whole story of Harriet Tubman, of Rosa Parks, of Ruby Bridges, was because I was never taught. These stories made me doubt the allegiance I had stated. If the flag I had pledged as a child denied liberty and justice to all, was it even worth my pledge?

    Suddenly, the flag had become a symbol, not of freedom for all, but of freedom for some and bondage and exclusion for others. 

    Over the history of humans, symbols had become corrupted by flags. The swastika, for thousands of years, symbolized "well-being" for Hindus, Buddhists, and Jains. Their fervor for this happy-good-luck symbol was imported to the US in the early 20th century and it was used in advertising, for decoration, and even the Girl Scouts called their magazine Swastika! When Hitler adopted the symbol - black hakenkreus (hooked cross) on a circle of white, surrounded by red, everything changed. Now that symbol, and indeed that flag, signifies hatred to the world, and terror to Jews, who were murdered under the sanctity of that flag.

    Even in this country, we've seen a symbol that was barely used during the American Civil War - the Confederate "battle flag" become a standard for white supremacy and racist opposition to civil rights. Some say that it means good-hearted "rebellion" to them, and that it stands for Southern Heritage, but at the time of the Civil War it was not considered the flag of the Confederacy. For Black Americans, the sight of the flag provokes the same fear, distrust and terror that the swastika flag does for Jews. 

    Fast forward to today, when flags, like the "Thin Blue Line" that flies over the Madison County Sheriff's office - to the opposition and distaste of anti-racism groups, symbolize to some the persecution and mistreatment of people of color and immigrant groups. Flags continue to be heavy symbols, bringing a lot of baggage for such placidly waving things. When a flag stops being a point of pride and starts being a representation of oppression, mistrust and fear, then it has ended its usefulness as a symbol. 

    But I believe that the American Flag - Old Glory - has a future as an enduring marker of freedom, equality, valor, and unity. For that to happen, however, those who have felt betrayed or suppressed by this flag must endeavor to take it back. Immigrants who made this country singularly great, descendants of formerly enslaved peoples who built this country, Native peoples who gave up everything to watch a new nation born on their shores, LGBTQ people who face discrimination still, and anyone who feels that the flag does not stand for them, should know that it does. And by taking back a symbol that bears so much hope, we can begin to unite a country that is separated by rural and urban, wealthy and modest, young and old.

    It is only through efforts on every American's part that our Star-Spangled Banner will continue to "wave o'er the land of the free and the home of the brave." Though the flag is complete, our work is not yet finished.

It's the People

 

Photo: This shot was taken along the Appian Way/Via Appia Antica in Rome, Italy. In the foreground, a road paved with large black stones, in the near distance, a pair of legs traversing the way. The ancient road, built around the 4th century, has large interlocking stones of basalt - a glossy black rock, and provided navigation for people, carts, commerce, and trade. It still does. Sometimes the simplest things last forever.

    A friend recently quipped that her favorite part of travel is the people she meets during the journey. Indeed, the way you meet fellow travelers, helpful locals, and experience chance encounters is often legendary and lasting.

    When I was a baby, my parents took an epic trip, overland from London, home to Sri Lanka in a camper-van. They met the Balboul family in Bethlehem, Jordan. A Muslim family, the Balbouls, had come to frolic at the salty Dead Sea at the weekend. My parents visited because it was a holy site for Christians. Their children - two school-age girls and a baby about the same age as me, were the common ground and the tending to, and watching of, children transcended language, culture, and formed immediate bonds. The Balbouls insisted that my parents stay with them, in their home, meeting their loved ones and feasting on their family's favorite foods. They ended up staying for three days, and even then their hosts were sorry to see them go. They kept in touch with annual holiday cards until a few years before my father passed away as Mr Balboul had also died.

    When our children were young, we were fortunate to make a trip to England and Paris. It was our first international trip as a family and came about due to the proceeds of a small retirement account I cashed out early. Best return on investment, ever.

    We were connected through a friend of my parents to a family living in the center of Paris. We intended to meet them at the train station and have them direct us to a decent, and economical, hotel. When they arrived to greet us, they insisted that we stay with them rather than in a soulless, overpriced hotel. We did so, with a little trepidation - mainly from the idea of inconveniencing them so. But the meeting turned out to be amazing - they showed us a side of Paris that would never have been found in a travel guide: a several-course homemade traditional French dinner, replete with bottle after bottle of wine and complete from des œufs to des noisettes. They drove us around Paris at night to see the Champs Elysees and the Eiffel Tower flooded with lights. We took with us, as we explored the city and visited the Cathedral of Notre Dame the next day, delicious tuna sandwiches they made for us on fresh baguettes from the boulangerie on the corner. We still keep in touch with them for holiday greetings. 

    If there were some way to pay them back (that they would accept), we would have gladly done so. But such things are better left to pay forward. 

    On that same trip, we sat near a young man on the train heading back to London. He had lived in Austin, where we were from, and we got to talking, comparing notes about our home town and his travels there. We shared a bottled beer, some bread and cheese with him.

    A few years ago on a trip to Seattle to visit our son Josh and his hubby James, we stayed in the Airbnb home of a couple whom we immediately bonded with. They reminded us of friends back in Hamilton and we had long talks, in the late evening or early morning, drinking wine or coffee and recounting the day's adventures. After only a handful of days, we felt like we'd known them for years. Now any visit to Seattle means we get to see them too.

    The great philosopher Shirley MacLaine once said, "The more I traveled, the more I realized fear makes strangers of people who should be friends." Yes, it is true that being too trusting can lead to trouble, but if you rely on your instincts and be aware of sketchy offers, you may end up with more than snapshots and postcards, for the best souvenirs are glorious memories of people who have gone out of their way to show you their hometown, or share their culture. There's nothing quite like a local to show you what life is like in their part of the world. There's no tourist attraction or landmark that can even compare to the joy of connecting to people who will show you the way that ordinary lives entwine with the most extraordinary places. Then, when you meet a traveler in your hometown, it becomes that easy to give them a taste of your culture - and you'll get to pay it forward.

    

Longing for My Secret Garden

Photo: Japanese butterbur flower, all 'leaf' and little bud, is an early arrival in my garden. The entire thing is a flower! When the plant matures, it produces giant leaves that crave shade. The image shows elongated, pointed petals in pale green forming a radius around small, white poms at the crown. The earth below is strewn with dry leaves, brown twigs and old pine needles.

    As the snow lay thick in my yard, blanketing all visible signs of grass, low-lying plants, and flower beds, I dreamt of the warming breezes of spring. This year's abundant snowfall had persisted though we had become accustomed to the freeze-and-thaw conditions of recent winters. One of my favorite spring rituals is the gentle clearing away of leaves and the heavy mulch of winter. It is like unwrapping a delicate present - carefully removing the outer layers to reveal the tiny, tender growth emerging from warming soil. I do this with my gloved fingers and a miniature child's rake.

    There is a wonderment in this process. I had, just a handful of months ago, eased these flower beds into slumber, by cutting away the overgrowth, nipping back the season's spent foliage, and tucking the soil in beneath a layer of dry leaves and compost. And so my garden slept, waiting for the joyous act of awakening. And I waited, too.

    In spring and summer, I am busy - like the bumblebee, like the hummingbird. I hardly know where to go first! Soon as I get there, I am thinking about where I should go next. I want to do it all, I want to welcome each sprout, greet every tendril curling from the rich earth. There will be the old favorites: friends I planted years ago risen from their rest, and there will be first-years: little cuttings gifted by garden buddies that have finally taken root. Each year, they surprise me, even the plants I've had for more than a decade. It is sheer exhilaration to witness the pointy green horns of hosta emerging, frilly primrose peeking out, and fronds of soft ferns curling towards the sun. Last summer, I planted three small hellebore plants I received from my friend Sue. Like snowdrops, crocus and daffodils, these showy blossoms are early risers. Others, like trillium, forget-me-nots, and bleeding hearts sleep in a little longer. Warming days, temperate nights, and sprinkling rain showers will make it all happen. 

    While the winter lingers long here in Zone 5, the longing begins - I almost can't bear to look at a seed catalog without feeling that hunger for cultivation, growth, and the unbridled exuberance of nature. Sometimes, I venture out into the garden as the snow melts and gives way to moist and mossy earth, where insects and worms and snails are busy, and I pretend not to remember what was where last year. It is a dear and special surprise to rediscover your own secret garden each spring.

    I will start with one flower bed and advance to the next, unveiling, peering, loosening, allowing and enabling the way that nature will advance and proliferate. Rather than try to control it, like I tend to do in so many aspects of my professional life, I allow my garden to do what it will, and gently attempt to guide it as you would a gifted child - nudging but not imposing, abetting without interrupting.

    My garden gives me creative play, the rewards of witnessing growth, and the therapy of hands in soil. It allows me the opportunity to put winter's pent-up energies to use, to create space for the plants that will emerge, mature, blossom and make way for their neighbors. What starts out in cool shades of periwinkle, cornflower and chalk blue, turns into butter-yellow, bright-white and canary, evolves to mauve, magenta and claret and settles into crimson, scarlet and marmalade. Even the foliage brings color and variety to each bed as the contrasts and textures overlap and accent.

    Each year, I attempt to bring a little order to the chaos, try to tame plants that tend to grow wild and crowd their neighbors, train the babies to move a certain way, and be not only visually pleasing, but also to offer evocative scents and variations. I also don't turn down an occasional enthusiastic and pleasant 'weed' when it appears. It is all part of the magical ecosystem of my garden. Perennials are long-term investments that pay huge dividends. And when the stock splits, you can share the profits with a friend.