Growing up in small-town East Texas (i.e. the Bible Belt) meant, in essence, that I was trained to love this country. I was spoon-fed patriotic turns of phrase from birth, owned way more flag-bearing articles of clothing than anyone really needs, and memorized the words to the Pledge of Allegiance before I learned to properly read anything else.
Especially in small, conservative towns like mine, a strong sense of nationalism is the ultimate unwritten rule. Everyone I knew had a pair of stars-and-stripes flip-flops, every school music class taught the same songs for Veteran’s Day, and everything was taken at face value. Everyone loves their country because no one has been taught that there’s any other option.
As I grew older, I began to raise questions. I wondered why we had to declare loyalty to a piece of fabric every morning. I wondered why we celebrated offensive wars and glossed over state-sanctioned genocides in history class. I wondered why no woman had ever been president, why no one had ever apologized for slavery or segregation or WWII internment camps, why young people of color were still facing violent, often fatal, discrimination.
I wondered many things, and with that came the slow but steady realization that everything I had learned about “loving” my homeland was, well, just that — learned.
Not to be a melodramatic teenager, but I felt manipulated. I’d abided faithfully by these daily habits for as long as I could remember, only to suddenly discover that none of them actually meant anything to me at all. And once I realized I was “going through the motions” rather than “doing what’s right,” I checked myself altogether. Midway through freshman year I stopped saying the Pledge of Allegiance every morning, and by senior year, I rarely even stood up.
Now, despite what many of you may think, this wasn’t a result of some ill-directed adolescent ennui. I had no yearning to disappoint my family and Subvert the Man; I became apathetic because, to put it simply, I was frightened. Sure, I hadn’t been brainwashed, per se, but I didn’t like the idea that all of these sentiments I’d for so long clung to as common sense were likely nothing more than the result of years and years of “so overt it’s covert” propaganda.
I know I’m not the only one who feels this way, but the best way I can explain it is with reference to the Colin Kaepernick and Gabby Douglas disputes; the two athletes are still receiving backlash (disproportionate to the crime, might I add) for refusing to observe proper Pledge of Allegiance and National Anthem “decorum,” respectively.
On Facebook alone I’ve seen countless shared articles of painstakingly listed grievances against the pair of athletes, deeming their actions anywhere from disrespectful to treasonous. Among the more-sparse-than-not supporters, there are boycott threats and cyberbullying — average citizens hurling racist slurs and violent condemnations in the name of our veterans, our leaders, our founding fathers.
That’s not a country I can be proud of. That’s not a country I want to be a part of. It’s not the country I thought I loved, and it’s not the country that we have to be. There is so much to love about this nation, there really is — our freedom of expression and of the press, our commitments to education and innovation — but there is even more that begs for improvement. Nothing good comes of blind hatred and the dismissal of the voices and protests of people who legitimately are treated, on a societal scale, as if they are of no value.
To add insult to injury, some don’t even see this hate speech as an actual issue — just an isolated case of free speech gone rogue. Of course, this an issue in itself. The apathy I’m talking about isn’t just present with regard to pride in the state, but also, in a much more dangerous fashion, with regard to so many different demographics, cultures, and popular struggles within our nation. It’s present in what we say and do, and it’s potent and extensive and often murderous.
It rears its ugly head day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute: On a seemingly harmless basis, when someone chooses not to vote or keeps quiet in the face of casual bigotry, as well as on a truly destructive scale, every time a rapist is given the barest form of punishment or a fundamentalist exploits the First Amendment to defend hateful rhetoric.
That being said, indifference isn’t always a result of spite; many a time, it’s mere failure to see outside the scope of our own experiences. It’s why white people are less likely to attest to white privilege, why cisgender and heterosexual populations don’t always notice LGBTQ+ intolerance, why the wealthy frequently dismiss poverty as laziness and unfortunate circumstance. It’s so easy to get caught up in the problems we have despite our privileges that we often overlook the suffering that our entitlement both ignites and perpetuates. We are aloof because we can afford to be.
Regardless of my own opinions on the state of our country, I do think that most of us at least try to keep one another’s best interests in mind. People are good at heart — I genuinely believe that — but it’s hard to maintain that outlook when all I see and hear in the media is war and police brutality and Donald Trump.
The bright side to that, though, is that in the midst of abundant antipathy and ignorance, there is always ample opportunity to learn and grow, with and for one another. Especially with how connected and globalized our world is, it’s beyond easy to stay informed on the struggles and successes of people from anywhere and everywhere. We have incredible access to firsthand accounts of victims and survivors who so readily share their stories as means of sparking change and awareness; there are millions of writers and artists and filmmakers sharing experiences and opinions that could completely alter the way we view ourselves and the world around us.
They’re all out there, ripe for the picking, and any one story, video, art exhibition could be the reason someone out there — someone like you — decides to participate in an election or speak out against an injustice.
That’s my challenge to you, if you’re reading this. Don’t be complacent where you can help it; don’t be dismissive. Don’t ignore what’s out there and get lost in your own circumstances. Seek understanding and empathy, and use what you have to make sure others have the opportunity to do the same.
America is better than its history; we are more than what we’re given. And it’s imperative, for the sake of kids like me who grow up to become cynical about their nation, and even more for the sake of those whose livelihoods are at risk because of our inaction, that we fight to reach our true potential and create a home in this country for anyone who chooses to make it so.
