Old Glory?

Before I write this little one-woman dialogue, let me preface it by saying I'm the granddaughter and niece of veterans. According to my family tree (and my uncle Wayne), I am eligible for membership in the DAR (Daughters of the American Revolution, for those of you who were not reared to revere this organization as I was). One of my direct descendents (I can't remember if it was William Logan or William Partin), was a member of General Washington's Guard. Or something like that. (Uncle Wayne, forgive me for my memory lapse here.) I'm proud of my heritage, and always pause for a moment when I walk past my grandfather's memorial flag, folded into a triangle and framed accordingly, on the wall of my parents' home. It's a humbling moment to think of my grandfather going into the horrors of war because he believed in what that flag symbolized.

That said, I have to agree somewhat with a commentary I heard this morning about the cheapening of national symbols. The pundit noted that our national anthem, inspired by a moment of great significance, has become something of a "lounge act," rolled out for the obligatory moment of solemnity just before someone shouts "play ball!" or just before the Miss Apple Blossom Festival pageant contestants take their places onstage. We've heard pop versions with vocal gymnastics, versions with a country twang, heartfelt opera, disconnected New Age, moody jazz--just about every musical genre known to humankind from sea to shining sea. Singers compete to do the honors at hockey games and baseball games and county fairs and small-town parades. Where is the sacred in that?

Never was this point better illustrated to me than a few weeks ago when a coworker and I went to lunch at the food court at a nearby mall. We had just sat down with our trays of some unhealthy delicacy when a female voice informed us and all of our fellow patrons that today the mall management was delighted to share with us a moment to honor the flag. We and the people around us awkwardly lay down our plastic forks and unhanded our disposable cups and listened politely as the voice of an older gentleman, identified as a veteran, spoke about the significance of the flag. He went on to explain each of the 13 folds (just as my grandfather's flag is folded). When he was finished, we went back to eating, then suddenly the female announcer asked us all to stand and show reverence for the playing of the national anthem. We lay our utensils down again, swallowed the bites in our mouths, and stood as the national anthem began to filter over the speakers and echo against the tile and composite tables of the food court. I glanced around at the people sharing this strange moment with us. Some had expressions of deep sentiment, others looked a little confused, and one guy kept glancing down longingly at the half-eaten food on his plate. I glanced at my coworker, whose shoulders had begun to shake, and I was surprised to see her wiping massive tears from her cheeks. Then I realized she was overcome with a different emotion than one might suppose--she was holding in laughter.

Later, she said she felt terrible for laughing at that moment, but I understood. I, too, found myself holding my breath to suppress the giggles that threatened to come spilling out. It wasn't that we aren't patriotic or didn't respect those who were trying to honor our nation's symbol that day. It was just the randomness of the act during lunch hour in the food court. Something about enchiladas on a paper plate didn't seem to fit with the solemnity of the veteran's speech.

It's kind of like going to church in old ripped jeans and a stained T-shirt. It's not that I think God loves us any less (or more) because of what we wear--and in fact inspires and expects humility from us. But there's a certain statement we make to ourselves and to others when we take a little extra effort to don something a little more special than what we'd wear to mow the lawn. And there's something about reserving other symbols of significance for fitting moments when due respect can be paid. Somehow I don't think it's over hot dogs at the mall or preceding swimsuit competitions. At least let me finish lunch first.