It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, hasn’t it? Oh, you’ve seen me around, I know, but you’ve taken me for granted a lot. I hang outside post offices and other Federal buildings, I’m unrolled and hung on special American holidays, and I’m in all parades. I think my real meaning has been maybe lost a little, though. But I understand.
They say one Betsy Ross was the first person to make me in around 1776, but there’s some controversy about that. It doesn’t matter really, I only care that I was made. (And I personally think she did.)
My colors? Beautiful combination, right? Red, white and blue. I mean talk about your flag fashion statements! Strong. Brilliant. Classic! Makes every other flag look sort of dull by comparison, if I may indulge a little egotism here. I will never go out of style. I’m told the red is for hardiness and valor, white for purity and innocence, and blue for vigilance, perseverance and justice.
Lots of old versions of me are still around. I’ve been made of homespun and wool and every sort of material. A huge, old version of me hangs in the Smithsonian, and other examples of me, with lesser groups of stars on my blue field than today’s fifty, are worth lots of money these days, I hear.
I understand the rules made up for me, you know, where and how to hang me and when, were created to show me respect; taking me in at sundown, having me lit if I’m left out at night, what kind of weather to avoid hanging me in, etc.
Never letting me touch the ground is one rule I really like. That’s sort of a moral crime, you know, to let that happen. People standing at attention, right arm across left breast, a hand raised in salute and hats removed as I’m carried past them is my favorite. Makes me feel good. Makes me feel proud and honored. I am also honored that F. S. Key wrote our astounding National Anthem while watching my broad stripes and bright stars gallantly streaming o’er the ramparts through the perilous night. And the honor I feel being flown above our Capital building or covering the coffin of a fallen soldier is indescribable.
That week, back on September 11, 2001, I felt beloved again, as if I stood for something. During that week and for a long time afterward, I’d been hung everywhere, from homes, trees, bridges. I was seen all alone in fields, painted on rocks, taped to mailboxes, fluttering from the ends of car aerials, pasted onto cars and trucks. People were and often still are, wearing my colors on their jackets, and they were not burning me so much back then, at least in America, nor were they desecrating or ignoring me. That week, the week of Sept. 11, 2001, I was born again. Stores ran out of me everywhere. Even the lady writing this for me, LC Van someone suspended me between two trees in her front yard and kept me there for a long time.
America had united again, just as we were before and during World War II, and frankly folks, it felt really good. The senseless, horrifying carnage America suffered on Sept. 11, 2001, brought us to tears, but not to our knees. We were finally Americans again, reminded of the greatness of our land, and of ourselves.
I am still so proud to represent a great people who chose that terrible week to not hang black bunting around this mighty nation, but instead to hang me. Long may you live, in prosperity and safety, good people of the United States. Bravo to you back then, and Bravo to America now!
LC Van Savage is a local writer. Contact her at LCVS@comcast.net, or visit LCVanSavage.com.
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