I come across it every now and then: our American flag. It has lived in the linen closet for years. The same questions run through my head each time I see it, usually in the middle of searching for a tablecloth or a set of napkins. What am I supposed to do with this? Should I hang it in my yard? Buy a flagpole? Why do we even have it? Repeatedly, I have resolved to give it away, but something always holds me back.
The provenance of this particular flag is murky. My husband must have found it somewhere, perhaps before we even met. It’s a beautiful vintage piece: stitched, with embroidered stars and the colors faded to a perfect denim blue and the weathered red of an old barn. But I’ve spent most of my adult life as a progressive Democrat. My people don’t fly the American flag. In fact, we hate the flag and what it represents: a deeply flawed nation. And we don’t like the Americans who proudly wave it either. Patriotism has always been for other people, or other generations.
