I Pledge Allegiance

In 1976, the United States of America turned two hundred. In the rural town where I grew up, our nation’s bicentennial birthday was a big, damn deal.  For weeks leading up to July 4th, a series of contests got us all in the mood. There was a window decorating challenge where every store on Main Street painted their sidewalk-facing glass with red, white and blue designs, a fire hydrant painting contest where individuals and neighborhood teams (who wore matching shirts and named themselves) competed to see who could be the most creative, a poster contest for kids, a costume contest for crazies. 

Flags whipped in the southern Oklahoma wind along a line down the central artery of our town and in front of houses all around from the middle of June on. 

When the 4th finally arrived, Healdton had a parade complete with fire trucks, the high school marching band, some decorated cars, and the National Guard Reserves who walked in green and tan fatigues as we all clapped. Apparently, someone was assigned to hand out miniature American flags on wooden sticks because everybody had one. Most waved them in the air like pom poms. Some men stuck them in their hats, some women in their hair, like a flower tucked behind an ear.  The twenty-year debacle in Vietnam had just ended, and though I didn’t really understand what it was or why it happened (did anyone ever figure that out?) I recognized the unmistakable trill of emotion that ran like earthquake aftershocks through the people lined up and down the pavement. Patriotism, I learned later, that wave of pride was called.  

When the procession of pageantry rounded the curve where Main Street morphed into Highway 76, the crowd dispersed into a convoy headed straight for Anthis Park. There, the party continued as men in stars-and-stripes aprons grilled mounds of hamburger patties and a line-up of wieners while local wanna-be musicians played as almost-singers sang along. When the enthusiastic performers played “This Land is Your Land” even kids on the swing sets and slides joined in. After the grilling was done, ice cream made in wooden churns stuffed with rock salt covered by kitchen towels made the rounds. Some people sat on picnic tables and “visited,” others threw horseshoes, some played cards, a few who didn’t care what anybody thought squared off underneath the pavilion and danced. 

Then, as if on a park-wide timer, everybody began to gather their gear and all the pieces of their families to pile back into their cars for another convoy. This time to the rodeo grounds for the final firework flourish.

The infinite line of vehicles with their turn-right blinkers on was the biggest traffic jam I’d ever seen. Once we made it through the gates, we parked one by one and ran to pack the wooden stands like fanatics at a play-off game. People scooted close together on blankets whisper-talking in anticipation as I-love-America music from the scratchy speakers affixed to telephone poles surrounding the grounds filled the hot summer air. Those who couldn’t find a seat on the bleachers sat on tailgates in the adjacent field that doubled as a parking lot. In the pauses between song tracks, the crowd both in and outside of the area chanted in unison, as if a part of a vocal wave, “U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!” 

While I’m sure there were people in our town who didn’t love America, I didn’t know who they were or where they lived. Everyone I’d ever seen in western Carter County seemed to be at the celebration with a flag painted on their car or their face or their shirt.  I was only eleven, but I was pretty sure I’d been born lucky. 

This kind of thing didn’t happen very often. And it certainly didn’t happen everywhere.

In just a few days, our country will celebrate another half-a-hundred years. America turns 250. And while that sounds old, as civilizations go, we are really just a baby.  And we are rife with growing pains to prove it.

 I’m not sure how many “city-wide” birthday parties there will be for our 250th that, like our bicentennial, are so all-inclusive. I was behind a car at a stoplight just last week whose bumper had a sticker with an image of the back of a fisted hand with the middle finger pointing up. The word that followed the picture was “America.” I couldn’t help but think the driver should try living somewhere else. 

For every celebratory parade, there will likely somewhere be a demonstration. For every hand-over-the-heart when the anthem plays, there will likely be a set of folded arms. For every grateful heart with misty eyes, there will likely be an angry spirit seething. We’re in the awkward, ugly stages of becoming. History tells us this is not an island--between two and three hundred years post inception, societies tend to spin off. Plenty of nations have been at this juncture before.

We shouldn’t be surprised, we should be ready.  

We cannot in the throes of our frustration over rampant inequality, the excess of affluence, vast institutional collapse, threats against the very values that sustain us, and more than our fair share of bad actors, get mad and take our toys and build a sandbox in our own backyards.

We have to stay the course.

July 4th, 2026, is a chance to celebrate our country for what it has been and is, instead of banging our head against the wall in angst for what it is not. 

We have a lot of growing up to do, for sure. But if we stick together, the best is yet to be.

P.S. The Voice