Thoughts evoked by Veteran's Day

Because I live in an area that is a popular retirement destination, the congregation where I minister has many veterans--primarily World War II veterans. These folks (mostly but not all men) are extraordinary people. Now in their 80s they still bear the scars of the war that in many ways shaped their lives. Several served on submarines. One flew in bombers, was shot down and spent many months in a German POW camp. Another survived the Bataan death march. They tell amazing stories--stories of the war, and stories of coming home, rebuilding lives that were interrupted by that war. They exemplify what has come to be called 'the greatest generation."

I have tremendous respect for these veterans. They are to a person active and committed, and have crafted lives that included not only building careers and and raising families but also serving their communities. But I still get uncomfortable when holidays like Veterans Day and Memorial Day roll around. I'm uncomfortable with too much overt patriotism. I don't believe in "my country right or wrong." Hearing the national anthem doesn't bring tears to my eyes. I don't say the pledge of allegiance because I fail to see the flag as something meriting that kind of devotion, and because too often lately it is associated with attitudes and behaviors I object to.

I wrote about my discomfort with our flag-waving tradition in church before. Out of respect for people I regard highly, I don't say anything about it. I just sort of nod and smile when people leaving church comment on how it moved them. Sometimes I wonder just what it is that makes me so--so what?--ambivalent at best and hostile at worst--to something that so many people view so positively. But I just can't buy into patriotism as it's currently construed.

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When I was a senior in high school, I won a statewide essay contest sponsored by the VFW. The topic was what it meant to me to be a patriot. I wrote the essay as a class assignment, and promptly forgot about it, so I was surprised to be notified that I had won a prize. And honestly, a little bit embarrassed. Because even then I wasn't a flag-waving patriot. Even then (in the waning years of Vietnam) I had deep reservations about the way this country and it's leaders interacted with the rest of the world and treated its own citizens.

I grew up the child of southern liberal democrats. My parents didn't talk about politics much, but somehow I knew how they felt about things. They were part of the generation that enthusiastically elected JFK, supported civil rights and and thought the war on poverty was a good thing, and I somehow absorbed that. But my junior high and high school years were years of tumult--assassinations (MLK and RFK), riots, increasing discord over Vietnam, Kent State, debates about the draft. My skepticism about unquestioning nationalism developed in the midst of all this. I wrote my senior civics paper on why we shouldn't have draft, and I wanted nothing more than to join the Peace Corps and serve the world, not just the U.S.

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Ironically perhaps, my high school boyfriend and later husband enlisted in the Navy right after graduation. For the 12 years that we were married, I lived in military communities with people who chose the military as their career, and who were for the most part much more conservative than I, and much more invested in the idea that the United States was without question superior to other countries. To say that there was a certain amount of cognitive dissonance which grew over the years would be an understatement. But I was much quieter then, not so outspoken, and mostly I kept my beliefs to myself.

There were times, though, when I chafed at the attitudes of some of those around me. When I went to Iceland I was frankly taken aback at the attitudes of many of the Americans stationed there. They could not seem to understand why the Icelanders (who were very protective of their culture and their population--understandable given their size) wouldn't think that everything American was superior to anything Icelandic. They saw no reason to explore the country or to learn the language or experience the culture. It was an eye-opening experience for me. I know that I have benefited greatly from being born and raised in this country, and that to a certain degree I owe it my loyalty. But why wouldn't people born and raised other places feel the same way about their own countries? Why should they revere the U.S. above their own homelands? And if I'm lucky enough to be immersed in a different place, why wouldn't I both respect it and learn more about it?

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In a post earlier this week I talked about the tension that sizzled in the air at our diocesan convention when we debated a resolution about the military, particularly about the ethics of recruiting practices in high school. I live in a pretty blue state, but even here the sentiment that it's not okay to criticize the military too much is prevalent. I will not criticize troops fighting in a war they have little control over, but I don't think it is disrespectful of them to question the ethics of our involvement in war or of the tactics employed by the military in war or out of it. When we lose the ability, the right to question and even to be critical, we are in a scary and dangerous place.

And therein lies at least part of my discomfort with patriotism as it seems to be understood these days. It's one thing to be loyal to one's country; it's another thing entirely to accept without question every action of that country, especially when those actions seem to violate the principles on which the country was founded. It's one thing to be grateful for the privileges I've enjoyed simply because I was born in a particular place; it's another to think the accident of my birth gives me any kind of inherent superiority over anyone else.

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I don't have a copy of that essay I wrote in high school, and I don't remember everything I wrote. I do recall one bit of it. Even then I argued that being a patriot meant more than waving a flag. Being a real patriot meant working to make one's country a better place to live, questioning the status quo, upholding the rights of the disenfranchised. I think that's what the veterans in my parish embody. But I'm afraid that they are literally a dying breed.

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I don't think it's wrong to feel pride in one's home, nor to feel loyalty to one's heritage. But I wonder if it's possible for humans to nurture these feelings without them blossoming into the kind of nationalism and ethnocentric thinking that leads to territoriality, racism, war and even genocide? I just don't know.