Prior to 9/11, I was just a typical left-wing protester. In my narrow view, American flags were grist for mockery, and soldiers were mostly brainwashed fools. Most wars were wrong in my little moral universe.
Then, on the morning of September 11, my mother woke me with the news that two planes had crashed into the World Trade Center. Like so many other Americans, we watched on TV as the buildings collapsed. I cried out: “The people! Oh my G-d, all those people.” Innocent people’s lives were ground to dust because some enemy hated this country so much. “We are at war,” I thought, “but I don’t know whom we fighting?”
As details of the Al Qaeda plot emerged, soldiers in camouflage came to guard Grand Central Station and other spots. I welcomed the “camou people.” I imagined how hard it was to stand in these places, hour after hour, day after day, bored, but needing to remain alert. American flags blossomed everywhere. I, too, wanted a flag. Buying flag-themed items became an obsession. Flaggy pillows, a flaggy Christmas ball, and a bag with a flag on it. . .my mother even made me a dress from cloth with flags printed on it. I could not get enough of the American flag!
Something else happened: I could not join my leftist comrades to protest against a war in Afghanistan. Because that country would not yield bin Laden to us, I believed we had to send a strong message that we would fight to get him. What was happening to me? Was I, heaven forbid, becoming patriotic? My dictionary offered an interesting possibility: Patriotism was not necessarily a belief that my country was always right; in fact, patriotic people could love their country so much, that they would work to make things right.
I realized that I had been patriotic all my life: The petitions, pickets, and parades were an expression of that love of the U.S. I would rail and shout against things that were unjust, but I never considered destroying innocent lives to effect changes. The aim always was to issue a clarion call to make “a more perfect union.” I was devoting my life to my country, albeit, not in such a dangerous way as soldiers do. We may disagree about what measures to take at different times, but we all want the same thing–a free and safe America.
Ten years later, I’m still protesting peacefully as I have always done. But I also carry the flag and love of my country and its defenders. Sometimes they are on my signs and but are always in my heart.