Missing my flag T-shirt

I’m listening to Zac Brown Band’s song called “Freedom.” The video opens with an American flag and the song is catchy. But I have mixed feelings.

For a while, I stopped posting about the flag and listening to Country music, and even loving America. Because to me, a group of extremists kidnapped it. My America.

That's right, My America. It's mine, too. I was born here. My parents were born here. And my grandparents emigrated here. From other countries. To pursue the American dream. Ahhh, with a long, comforting "Ahh"merica.

I remember 1976. It was the closest any of us would get to an actual "100th" anniversary of the birth of our nation. 1776-1976. We made banners and red, white, and blue cupcakes, and walked the parade in Edgartown on Martha’s Vineyard – one of America’s oldest – and all of us kids chased the candy those men from the antique firetruck threw to us. And we weren't afraid to eat it.

It was just as innocent as when my Grandfather, Joe Monti, came to America. He was just a kid. "Wow," he must have said as he passed the Statue of Liberty on his way to check in at Ellis Island. I can imagine him staring up at her green dress and enormous head, holding up that frozen flame. He couldn't have any idea that this would turn out to be such a great decision. He'd move to Braintree, Mass., marry a wonderful woman, and raise 13 kids together -- one being my Dad. And then see 40+ grandchildren and 45+ more great's be born. Ahhmazing.

Life was good growing up, and so was America.

But I can’t buy into the slogan that we can get back there again.

It’s impossible. Too much has changed. Technology, for one thing. We had rotary phones and we got lost in the woods without any way to reach anyone except by yelling. It worked out. (Most of us got out alive.)

Today we have the exact opposite of neutral journalism and ethics. Back then, the onus was put on us – the newspaper readers and the television viewers – to form our own opinions about stories. News broadcasts spent hours – researching information and verifying facts and drafting scripts before they would air it. Literally, ABC would delay a story, even allowing CBS to “beat” them to the punch, rather than air misinformation. That was the price they paid for respect.

Now we live in an Oreo. But it’s only black and white one station at a time.

My dad and I were watching the news about yesterday’s controversy, and the anchors were describing how horrific it was. He said, “But look!” and flipped one digit – one single digit – up the dial. Those anchors were saying the exact. Opposite. Thing.

Everybody knows this. We talk about it. We complain over it. But I’m saying that only 40 years ago, we had to sit through both sides of the argument and draw our own conclusions. Now, Mr. Google and Ms. ChatGPT do it for us.

That’s fine. So what? What’s the big deal? Why ya got yer knickers in a kink?

My knickers are kinked because everybody’s fighting about it, all the time now. And I’m living in this pressure cooker that I didn’t choose to move into.

So, I guess I miss My America. I miss wearing red, white, and blue t-shirts and hearing the national anthem and not having to scowl, and seeing flags on front doors and not thinking, “I know what kind of person lives there.” I miss being proud to be American. Not the way the new guy says it. The genuine way. The earnest way. The generous way. The way we were kind to our neighbors and less afraid and less combative.

But here’s the thing. I know I can’t get that back. That was another time. I was younger. That’s ancient history. For me to pine and think we can recreate that culture is unrealistic. It’s like me saying, “I reallyyyy want to go back to the days of Ancient Egypt.” That’s nice. Even though I’d like to believe in time travel and Matrix portals and maybe us being created by some aliens, I know my life isn’t ever going to be the same as it was 56 years ago or 20 years ago or 1 year ago, when I had breast cancer.

Because I’m not the same, and neither is anything around me.

We can only move forward. We can only age forward. We can only raise our children forward.

I can cherish my memories. I just know that's what they are. Memories.

Ahh, there’s the rub.