That’s what I used to think. I’m not sure why—other than the fact that I’ve always liked elephants … seems silly now, but when I was very young, I guess that’s how I thought political association worked. Even though I grew up in a household with parents who were democrats. Maybe, I also thought I “should” be something different than my parents. Kids do that. I also thought republicans were rich. And well, I was kid (find me a kid who doesn’t want to be rich).
I did not, however, grow up with a silver spoon in my mouth (or hidden in a kitchen drawer somewhere). But I never wanted for anything more than I had. I never wondered if my breakfast cereal would taste better from that said silver spoon. Quite the contrary. I believed with every ounce of my being that I was fortunate—that I was “rich”—and I believed wholeheartedly that I owed my good fortune, at least in part, to our soldiers.
When I was little, maybe six or seven, I used to love going through my mom’s old high school yearbooks. I loved seeing pictures of her as a cheerleader, as homecoming queen, as a teenager with bouffant hair. She went to a small school somewhere in the middle of Idaho. She knew everyone in her class. And I assumed, for the most part, was friends with most everyone. But. On almost every page there was an X over a boy’s face. A big black X crossing out the young man’s existence. I thought they were boys she didn’t like. I was wrong.
They were the ones killed in Vietnam. They were the ones who never made it back. Who never got to look though their own yearbook with their children. They were the soldiers. The airmen. The marines. Some of the very ones whom I believed, and still do believe, I owe my good fortune.
A few months ago, I had the privilege of being stuck in an airport, waiting in a Starbucks line, and was able to chat with two young men who had just finished BMT and were headed to their respective AIT. We talked for 20 minutes. They told me a little bit about their “plans,” and they asked me what I thought. I told them my father served. That my husband served. And I told them how their services shaped them. And then, I paid for their drinks, and we went on our merry ways but not before THEY told me to thank my husband for HIS service. Twice. THEY told me. Twice. And that hit.
And so, when I see a service member, I get a deep-rooted sensation in my belly that reminds me how damn proud I am to live in a country where men and women are willing to risk their lives to bring the rest of us our good fortune. To thank someone else, for their service. And it’s that feeling that defines patriotism. It’s the way you feel when you look at this picture, understanding what the X represents. It’s raw, it’s pure, and it is (I believe) a feeling that’s still alive and well in our country—republican, democrat or something else altogether … and for the record, while I still like elephants, I also like donkeys : )
Cover image created with Google AI. Originally published between 2015 and 2018, this post has been updated as content is migrated from the archives of The Flavored Word.
Today’s post inspired by The Daily Prompt, “Are you patriotic? What does that mean to you?“
DISCLAIMER: I’m a writer and an editor. And I try my best to make sure every post is articulate and free from errors. However, being that I edit my own work—and it’s next to impossible to properly edit your own work—I admit, occasionally there may be an error or two I miss. But doing so doesn’t make me an idiot so don’t be mean. Just smile, pat yourself on the back for finding an error and be glad you’re not the only one who makes mistakes sometimes … xoxox
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