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I’ve had an American flag for many years. It just showed up one day and I suspect one of my neighbors left it for me shortly after Independence Day. If that’s the case, I appreciate the gesture. It made me feel good to see it, like a cherished friend all these years.
Today, I had to let go of that flag because the America I knew — or I thought I knew — is dead. A vile excuse of a human being and a traitor to everything our soldiers ever fought against has retaken power, and will never let it go.
I debated how to do it out of respect for what it once meant to me. I considered burning it, but that felt wrong. I needed to properly say goodbye to an old friend I’d known all my life, but who had changed, and our relationship is now irrevocably broken.
Maybe I never knew the true America, because of my entitlement as a white male. Perhaps everyone else saw America for what it truly was, and at last, my rose-colored glasses had cracked.
Ultimately, I wrapped it tenderly around its pole and delivered it to our village hall. I told them I needed to dispose of it as I could no longer keep it.
Will America one day recover, and become better than it ever was? I don’t know, and if it does, I hope I’m part of that fight — but, for now, I am angry, bitter, sad, and disappointed. I fear for my friends and family and, selfishly, myself.
Today is a dark, shameful time in our long history, and I think it’s okay to grieve for as long as we need.
