So I'm in Los Angeles for the Fourth of July. That's right. A hard-working brother needed some time away from the love of his life [that would be Brooklyn] just for a few days. Yesterday evening I spent most of my time scouring the aisles of Whole Foods and BevMo for the ingredients to help make a poolside BBQ the best happenings since folks re-discovered rooftops and the power of a good bottle of a chilled Sancere.
So I'm standing at the butcher counter at Whole Foods and a friend said to another: Shouldn't we get a flag? It IS the Fourth. The other friend responded: A flag? What kind of flag? I don't want a flag ruining my party. A third friend responded: What kind of flag did you think? An American flag, Fool. Unless you prefer to wave something with warmer colors. Like Haiti or some bull. [Yes, folks had jokes.]
Truthfully, I understand my friend's resistance to that party-crashing flag. For me, the flag has always translated to relentless bible-toting, racist whites, a fear of ideas outside of the mainstream, and a distrust of a lifestyle that challenges the notion of morality and a cookie-cutter image of family. In other words, I wouldn't want a flag to ruin my poolside BBQ either. I like to snap loose at a party and feel free to be me. Besides, somebody might expect someone to pledge allegiance or something.
But then I thought if I'm challenged by the flag so much why haven't I left the country. You know, found political and creative solace in France, or joined some utopian cult deep in the desert of Mexico waiting for some U.F.O. to snatch me up and take me away. All I could come up with was this:
1. Every summer as a boy catching box turtles out near Winton Woods. One of the most lush and serene places in southern Ohio.
2. Being told that my dad took me to Black Panther meetings when I was no older than two.
3. Hearing the frustration of my mom who abhorred the idea that women should be expected to cook, clean, work without complaint.
4. My paternal grandfather's determination to build his own church in Cincinnati after an exhausting and heart-breaking migration from a brutally racist town in Georgia.
5. My maternal grandfather's fulfilling one of his life-long dreams and opening a seafood market in Kennedy Heights, Ohio.
6. The day my maternal's grandmother's family was honored during a Kentucky centennial celebration as one of the oldest black families in the region.
7. Receiving a Young Author's Award in the second grade and Nikki Giovanni shaking my hand.
8. The first time I fell in love as a teen with a kindred spirit who shared my interest in astronomy and scary movies which made that first kiss so damn good.
9. Visiting South America and loving the people and Afro-culture of Punta de Piedras, but having to painfully admit I missed the American bathroom.
10. Burying my mom at Gates of Heaven Cemetery next to her parents and aunts and uncles who lived, worked, loved, complained, and many who even waved their flags in the good ole U.S. of A.
This is it: It may take me a life-time to shake loose the legacy of what I believe the American flag often represents, but I know for sure I love this place. A complicated love, but it's home. It's where I fight and struggle and laugh a lot. The land is beautiful, there's no doubt. I mean, have you seen West Virginia? And this country's ability to create a revolutionary mind and soul is one of its most important contributions to present-day life. So I may not want to enjoy my BBQ chicken burger under a waving flag... today, but that in no way means I don't enjoy fighting the good fight and living the good life on this very special and well-earned battleground called America.
