"Familiarity breeds contempt." I remember as a kid when ice cream and soda pop were occasional luxuries given a limited family budget; a trip to McDonald's was for a special occasion, like a First Communion or Confirmation. Things changed after my Dad retired from the military and eventually got a job with the Post Office and my Mom also joined the workforce. I remember visiting home one weekend from Houston, watching in amazement as my youngest siblings, now in high school, just grabbed ice cream from the freezer or a cold can of soda without even asking. [While in high school, I could only find work as a paperboy, throwing about 80 papers a day on base and netting roughly a buck a day; occasionally after deliverying papers to my few subscribers at the bachelors' quarters in the hot Laredo sun, I would stop at the vending machines to treat myself to a can of Sprite.] I think my youngest brother and sister missed out on the early family experience, despite having all the ice cream and soda they wanted.
I have a reverence for the American flag, even though, unlike many conservatives, I oppose a flag burning ban amendment. It might sound obvious, given the fact I was a military brat and sought an officer's commission following my first Master's degree. But I don't wear it on my sleeve or on my shirt lapel, as Obama famously did and didn't do during the Democratic nomination campaign. I am not impressed by merchants whom try to use it as a marketing device; many Democrats also seem to think patriotism is a mere political gimmick and are determined not to be outgimmicked by the Republicans. Patriotism is not the opiate of the masses. To me, America is not represented by politicians telling the public what they think the public wants to hear, trumpeting spending the nation's money frivolously, promising tax cuts and increased goods and services, and doing whatever it takes to get elected. America is represented by those brave men whom have lost their lives defending freedoms others take for granted. America is represented by men and women whom are unafraid of making the hard decisions, telling the public things that they don't want to hear, including the fact that we have to live within our means, and doing whatever it takes to ensure subsequent generations inherit a usable infrastructure, manageable programs and debt, sufficient resources, and a robust economy. Just as Moses led the Israelites out of slavery but did not live to see the Promised Land, we need leaders whom fit a political profile of courage and will make the tough long-term choices, even if it costs their political careers. If young American men can be asked to possibly sacrifice their lives or limbs, how can politicians fail to put their careers on the line? What is the purpose of a political career--to simply hear oneself talk or to serve the American people? And if solving problems requires a little give and take, which is more important--the vanity of one's opinions or political livelihood, or the very sake of America herself? As John McCain said during his noble campaign last year: "Country first!"
Ask John McCain what he thinks about the flag, and he may tell you the story of Mike Christian:
As you may know, I spent 5½ years as a prisoner of war during the Vietnam War. In the early years of our imprisonment, the NVA kept us in solitary confinement or two or three to a cell. In 1971 the NVA moved us from these conditions of isolation into large rooms with as many as 30 to 40 men to a room. This was, as you can imagine, a wonderful change and was a direct result of the efforts of millions of Americans on behalf of a few hundred POWs 10,000 miles from home.
One of the men who moved into my room was a young man named Mike Christian. Mike came from a small town near Selma, Alabama. He didn't wear a pair of shoes until he was 13 years old.At 17, he enlisted in the US Navy. He later earned a commission by going to Officer Training School. Then he became a Naval Flight Officer and was shot down and captured in 1967.Mike had a keen and deep appreciation of the opportunities this country, and our military, provide for people who want to work and want to succeed. As part of the change in treatment, the Vietnamese allowed some prisoners to receive packages from home. In some of these packages were handkerchiefs, scarves and other items of clothing. Mike got himself a bamboo needle.Over a period of a couple of months, he created an American flag and sewed it on the inside of his shirt. Every afternoon, before we had a bowl of soup, we would hang Mike's shirt on the wall of the cell and say the Pledge of Allegiance. I know the Pledge of Allegiance may not seem the most important part of our day now, but I can assure you that in that stark cell, it was indeed the most important and meaningful event.One day the Vietnamese searched our cell, as they did periodically, and discovered Mike's shirt with the flag sewn inside, and removed it. That evening they returned, opened the door of the cell, and for the benefit of all us, beat Mike Christian severely for the next couple of hours.Then, they opened the door of the cell and threw him in. We cleaned him up as well as we could. The cell in which we lived had a concrete slab in the middle on which we slept. Four naked light bulbs hung in each corner of the room. As I said, we tried to clean up Mike as well as we could. After the excitement died down, I looked in the corner of the room, and sitting there beneath that dim light bulb with a piece of red cloth, another shirt and his bamboo needle, was my friend, Mike Christian. He was sitting there with his eyes almost shut from the beating he had received, making another American flag.He was not making the flag because it made Mike Christian feel better. He was making that flag because he knew how important it was to us to be able to pledge our allegiance to our flag and country.
Each morning on my way to the Greenbelt train station my car passes under two overpasses where someone has stuck an American flag on a fence. I think of a lot of things. Mike Christian. John-John saluting his daddy's casket. 9/11. The first man on the moon, Neil Armstrong. The return of Vietnam-era P.O.W.'s, including John McCain. The space shuttle Challenger and Columbia tragedies. The Berlin Wall collapse. Mark McGwire breaking Maris' home run record. The toppling of the statue of Saddam Hussein. D-Day and the liberation of Nazi concentration camps. But most of all, a deep, abiding love for America, her principles, and her people. God has blessed me in so many way; in particular, I was born into a country for which many yearn to live but only a few are chosen.
On the Metro Blue Line, I try to make sure I'm seated on the right side of the train as it leaves the Rosslyn station. You can briefly make out hundreds, if not thousands of gravestones in the distance as the train approaches the Arlington Cemetery stop. Recently I watched a glum-faced young woman getting off the train. Who did she come to see--a father, brother, husband, fiance or friend? I said a silent prayer for her and for whom she came to visit.
I feel proud and sad at the same time. How many men gave their lives? How many parents lost a son, how many wives and fiancees lost their soulmates, how many children grew up without their hero daddy? How many dreams and the promise of these men went unfulfilled? I pray that not even one life was lost in vain, that every casualty served a greater purpose. I pray that America has been worthy of their sacrifice. I pray we don't take for granted those precious liberties paid for by so much sweat and blood. I hope that what I do and have done with my freedom is worthy of what generations of Americans have done to guarantee I have it.
Once or twice a year, it becomes politically fashionable to pay lip service to those brave men whom have served and given the ultimate sacrifice for our benefit. Politicians will pose for photo-ops, and millions of Americans who have never worn the uniform of their country will enjoy a holiday. Others will relive a painful memory and struggle to remember fading memories of happier times, but for them it happens every day, not just once or twice a year.
As for me, when the train pulls away from Rosslyn, you will find me putting away my newspaper, in the window seat on the right side of the train, looking out the window and remembering.
