My Dad and America
My great uncle was PFLP Terrorist George Habash, or so I am told. My great grandfather threw him down the stairs of his Detroit home, for speaking poorly of this country. That was America.
My dad was raised mostly by the Great Grandfather. My dad was raised on Arabic food, on Gibran, on family and faith. His grandpa owned a shop. He worked at a pizza place. He made it into college and worked his way through. He owned two pairs of jeans, four white shirts, a tie, and a bike. His grandpa was proud. That was America.
My dad died some time ago, and it was a big death, with weather, and CNN.
As we went through the wreckage one thing I found was his old hat from his Air Force dress uniform. He was in Vietnam. He was almost blind in his left eye so he was not passed through to be a flight navigator. Instead he lived, and eventually became my dad. He invented steel alloys which were used for a generation of planes. Had my big sister. Served his hardest. Had his young wife and daughter smuggle hot cocoa to the protestors outside the gates of the base.
He later explained that it was not his opposition to the war (which was in his opinion a quagmire) that prompted the hot cocoa. For him the protestors stood as an example of the very best of what we were defending. That was imperfect, and complicated, and nuanced, and beautiful, and that was America.
He finished with the service. Got a Masters Degree, and then another one. Invented a thing. Had me. Moved to Washington. Moved to Michigan. Moved to Ohio. Advanced in a career. Started his own business. Grew it. Did all of the things that we talk about when we ask if that was America.
He died some time ago, and it was a big death, with weather, and CNN.
I have a flag now. It sits in my office. And I think that it matters because this country is an idea. America is a set of mushy boundaries with some pretty places and a nice moat...but that's not really what we are.
The perfect sentence here would wrap up these concepts of duty, and hope, and America, and terrorist uncles, and steel, and commerce. Tie them into a cohesive strand. But I can't. In some ways this conflict is turning into the theme of this season of writing. As I've said I think of this country as the embodiment of the struggle to live out our Declaration. That statement is not a battlecry. I wish I had one.
I guess I'm listening to hear what my Great-Grandpa yelled back before he pushed.
Maybe this;
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.
I pray it's all true.
RAC
My dad was raised mostly by the Great Grandfather. My dad was raised on Arabic food, on Gibran, on family and faith. His grandpa owned a shop. He worked at a pizza place. He made it into college and worked his way through. He owned two pairs of jeans, four white shirts, a tie, and a bike. His grandpa was proud. That was America.
My dad died some time ago, and it was a big death, with weather, and CNN.
As we went through the wreckage one thing I found was his old hat from his Air Force dress uniform. He was in Vietnam. He was almost blind in his left eye so he was not passed through to be a flight navigator. Instead he lived, and eventually became my dad. He invented steel alloys which were used for a generation of planes. Had my big sister. Served his hardest. Had his young wife and daughter smuggle hot cocoa to the protestors outside the gates of the base.
He later explained that it was not his opposition to the war (which was in his opinion a quagmire) that prompted the hot cocoa. For him the protestors stood as an example of the very best of what we were defending. That was imperfect, and complicated, and nuanced, and beautiful, and that was America.
He finished with the service. Got a Masters Degree, and then another one. Invented a thing. Had me. Moved to Washington. Moved to Michigan. Moved to Ohio. Advanced in a career. Started his own business. Grew it. Did all of the things that we talk about when we ask if that was America.
He died some time ago, and it was a big death, with weather, and CNN.
I have a flag now. It sits in my office. And I think that it matters because this country is an idea. America is a set of mushy boundaries with some pretty places and a nice moat...but that's not really what we are.
The perfect sentence here would wrap up these concepts of duty, and hope, and America, and terrorist uncles, and steel, and commerce. Tie them into a cohesive strand. But I can't. In some ways this conflict is turning into the theme of this season of writing. As I've said I think of this country as the embodiment of the struggle to live out our Declaration. That statement is not a battlecry. I wish I had one.
I guess I'm listening to hear what my Great-Grandpa yelled back before he pushed.
Maybe this;
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in His bosom that transfigures you and me: As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on.
I pray it's all true.
RAC
2 Comments:
Ryan,
As a political ignorant and someone who follows wartime politics like a bee follows a freight train, I am mesmerized by your passionate words on America. As a 4th-generation Irish-American, I have experienced none of the struggle of finding my place in this country...it often feels like this country formed itself around me. As a perennial fence-rider when it comes to partisan politics, I am amazed by your father's devotion to fairness, justice and the belief that, in the end, it is the conflict of Democracy that makes it work.
I love it when you write. Thanks...
Peace,
Justin
Ryan,
As a political ignorant and someone who follows wartime politics like a bee follows a freight train, I am mesmerized by your passionate words on America. As a 4th-generation Irish-American, I have experienced none of the struggle of finding my place in this country...it often feels like this country formed itself around me. As a perennial fence-rider when it comes to partisan politics, I am amazed by your father's devotion to fairness, justice and the belief that, in the end, it is the conflict of Democracy that makes it work.
I love it when you write. Thanks...
Peace,
Justin
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