David McRaney  |  Journalist

Dear America: can we just be friends from now on?

I voted for John Kerry, and for a while I felt bad about his not winning. Then I considered how awful a candidate he was and felt bad I didn't go for a third party candidate, you know, just to promote the concept.

Now, I feel bad I even cared at all. And you know what else? I think I'm tired of looking at the American flag. When I listen to rhetoric from either side I start to cringe. I think I might just be allergic to patriotism too.

This makes me sad because I wish I could feel something toward my government and nation other than apathy. I would love to be inspired or challenged.

But, here it is, solid on my shoulders. I think I have finally given up hope. Now that I have had a chance to cool down and look at the big picture again, the whole thing seems laughable. I feel powerless to do anything but comment on the people who make the laws.

I grew up in the South, shielded and protected from the big picture all throughout my youth. So as far as I knew, the America I grew up in truly was the sweet land of liberty. But, somewhere along the way I just stopped caring about this place in that way.

I have realized I'm one of those people conservatives and Republicans like to point out when they urge the public to stand up for traditional American values. You know, people like Bill O'Reilly love to tell their audience people like me hate America, or espouse anti-American ideas or feel guilty we live here. When you get down to it, he might be right, because the country I was led to believe I lived in doesn't exist and never has. It's all mythological, and I when I travel abroad I find myself making excuses for things I wish I could be proud of.

I can't say any one thing made me lose my nationalistic pride. I just don't love the country in that way. I think we should just be good friends, good plutonic friends.

After all, a country is just a series of lines on the map we all agree to, right? Well, maybe it supposed to be a unified cultural and political entity. But, you know, I just don't care anymore.

I find myself increasingly aligned with Bill Hicks who used to say when asked if he was proud to be an American it was just the place where his parents conceived him, nothing more, and if he had had a say in the matter he would have chosen Paris.

I remember in Sumrall, home to 1,000 souls and some change, we would sit along Main Street every year on July 4 and watch our meager parade with red-blooded American pride.

Later, free of the sun but still smothered in Mississippi heat, we would watch the fireworks set off by the volunteer fire department. I waved a little flag until I set it down and forgot it. I ate hotdogs. I saluted.

They still have a parade every year, but I don't go. Sometimes the fourth of July passes, and I don't even notice. Maybe that kind of patriotism is something to be shed, like believing in Santa or playing with dolls. You can still look back on those things with a bittersweet smile, but you know you can never be so innocent again, or naive.

My grandfather fought in World War II. He spent the night in a foxhole soon after digging it with a Japanese soldier he had riddled with bullets.

My father fought in Vietnam. His barber, a man who shaved my dad's neck with a straight razor, turned out to be an enemy spy. I sometimes think my dad killed him because he likes to tell the story, but often leaves out key details.

So, growing up, the flag was everywhere. Ceramic eagles perched on bookshelves while old medals twinkled in the closet. We watched westerns and old war movies with an electric sense of right versus wrong.

But, it was a different kind of patriotism. It was worn around the edges, rough. Both my grandfather and father seemed to have personal relationships with America that superceded apple pie and anthems. The each hated politicians and distrusted the military. Yet, they ran a flag up a pole every day.

My grandfather was active in the VFW and the American Legion; he joined the Masons and kept a picture of his unit taped up in his workshop.

My father belongs to no organizations, is self-employed, never pulls out a photograph and is fond of conspiracy theories including a few concerning the Masonic Lodge.

So, I suppose my feelings are part of this natural entropy of ideals. I doubt I'll vote in the next electing because I've come to believe voting is a purely symbolic gesture. And, to add to my malaise, I generally feel as if there is no hope for freedom.

Yet, I too feel as though I have a personal relationship with this country that transcends bumper stickers and yellow ribbons.

Try and swallow this caveat - I still love this country.

But, I fear it was doomed from the beginning. You can't found a place as a group of rich, white, male slave owners and proclaim it as place where all men are created equal and expect me to take you seriously.

I just don't know anymore. All the myth building and flag waving just bounces off of me lately.

All the hoopla about wiretapping and warmongering seems futile. I mean, one of our basic rights afforded us by the Constitution is to live in a country where there are supposed to be no laws abridging our right to speak freely. But, we have had an unelected body of people called the FCC dictating what people can and cannot say on both television and radio for the better part of a century. I mean, why fight injustice when they can just pick and choose what is and isn't legal?

America, where did we go wrong? Was it you? Was it me? Maybe one day we can try again, but until you change, let's just be friends.

Originally published in The Student Printz on April 6, 2006