A flag waves in my heart, and that is as it should be. It was placed there atop an inner mountain sometime in the distant past by events that I do not specifically recall - but likely at a time when patriotism meant something different, something heart-felt by a nation united in the diminishing shadows of World War II. We were a different nation then - not better or worse, just different. Of course, my war years were spent in a concentration camp in the southeastern deserts of Colorado - Amache, CO, to be specific. My recollections of these times are mere memory traces now, in part because it was an aeon ago, but also because at the tender age of four I didn't understand the import of the war, the barbed wire that fenced us in, or the baby-faced boys toting government issue M-1 rifles and manning machine gun towers. I came to most of these images later when, in high school, I returned to that distant past to re-claim my Japanese heritage - but that's another story. At the time my parents were told the camps were for our own protection. Of course...
The heart is an interesting place - we carry forward primarily the most memorable of recollections, whether the warm and comforting ones, or those of dread and sorrow drawn from the shadows of our inner space. In either case, it is in the heart that we feel the pain or the uplifting and inspiring forces that are part of our inner journey. It is this inner facility that is most associated with the flag. It is here that the true meaning of the flag has its bearing, its import, its influence on our minds and in our lives. It is here that valor, vision, and wisdom are born, and here that their fires are stoked. It is fitting that the flag truly flies here...
When I was young there were a lot of flags in the house. Those were the years coming out of the camps of WWII, when we were only one of two families of Japanese-Americans in one farming community in central California - tough times for a child dealing with identity issues just as a matter of growing up, but with an added layer around ethnicity. There were others of color in the rest of the community - it was just that my color was so closely associated with the enemy just several years previously. It wasn't just something we kids faced, it was a family matter for sure. My parents, being good Americans, belonged to and served on various circles and committees at the Methodist church, attended parent-teacher conferences and presided over the PTA, were active in the local Farm Bureau, hosted programs such as the 4-H, the Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts, and provided support, sanctuary, and home-cooked Japanese meals for those airmen stationed at Castle Air Force Base, a stone's throw to the north of town, who had returned from the war with Japanese war brides...
Coming into our home was akin to entering middle America - not just America, but of patriotic America of the 1950s. My parents gathered those icons of patriotism that said We are American. My Mom crocheted doilies, those frilly and filigreed things, that she placed on the headrests and armrests of overstuffed chairs and sofas in the living room. There was invariably a religious-patriotic motif: In God We Trust, with an American flag splashed across the background; Honor across the base of the Capitol dome. On the wall in the living room was a large wood carving, the product of the elder generation of artists in the camps, this one carved by my grandfather, depicting a bald eagle with wings outspread, an American flag clasped in one talon, an olive branch in the other, with the Capitol dome in the background. There was an American flag on a standard to the right of the fireplace, the California bear flag on a matching standard to the left. On an end table, the family bible, encased in a tooled leather cover, "Holy Bible" stamped and highlighted in red-white-and-blue in the light leather grain. In retrospect, my parents were not only American, they were 200% so, a compensation for the standard they believed they had to meet in order to be accepted in the wider farming community. This was never verbalized as an expectation - yet, we held ourselves to it as a matter of course, a matter of survival. Understandably one does that given the circumstances, as wanting to be accepted is a powerful human drive...
Those were formative years for me - I gained a solid work ethic second to none, a value-base instilled by my hard-working parents of giving full-measure. They developed in me a love of, a dedication to, and a deep sense of obligation to my country that grew out of their love of America, and their gratefulness for the benefits and blessings of living in this country. This in spite of what their government did in placing our family in a concentration camp for the duration of the war. I also grew up with a deep-seated sense of fairness and fair play, again a value instilled by my parents, of a status of equality before the blind eyes of justice. Justice - ironic, this, in light of where we spent the war years...
At age 18 I registered with Selective Service - that was the law. It wasn't until some 5 years later while in graduate school, however, that I filed for a change of status from 1-A to 1-O, conscientious objector to military service. Not being a member of a traditional peace church my request was denied, and I underwent an involved process of appeals. I eventually met with a federal hearing officer (judge) who, in assessing the veracity of my claim, ruled in my favor and I was granted C.O. status. I subsequently served 2 years of alternative service for my country. This was a difficult and ambivalent period for my parents, so totally American, yet so totally Japanese. Their sole experience of C.O.s was during WWII, when virtually all went to jail. Understand that in the Japanese culture to bring shame upon the family name is taboo - to do so with a criminal record represents unspeakable pain and embarrassment. Mom and Dad, however, being good Japanese parents, and in spite of their personal feelings, supported me in my stand because I was their number one son. They stood by me throughout my appeal hearings...
I love my country - I chose to support it by serving in alternative service rather than fleeing to Canada, and was prepared to go to jail for my beliefs had the hearing officer denied my final appeal. I have continually supported my country over the years by participating in various segments of the peace movement, by going on protest marches and peace vigils, always opposing the various wars my government has waged. I have voiced my opinion against aggression and war in favor of diplomacy and the unrelenting pursuit of peace, a rare quality amongst the many self-absorbed politicians at our top-most levels of government, and noticeably absent at present. I have voted in every election forever, and value the right and privilege of suffrage - in our country, this is the method of choice for regime change. I value the right of dissent, of questioning the policies and practices of my government, both by voice and by putting my body in the line of march. Dissent represents an historic and intrinsic part of the foundation of this country. It is in part a thread in the basic and elemental fabric that defines it. It is inseparable from the ideals of freedom - it is the embodiment of it. So, to suppress dissent in a time of war, to quell the challenging of the President and his spokespersons, to brand as a traitor one who disagrees with the body politic, goes against everything that this country stands for - it does a disservice to and cheapens all those throughout our history who have struggled for these principles, especially those who have fought and died in doing so. These are the ideals and vision that are this country - the ideals for which so many have died. The flag is the symbol of this. The flag, though, is just that, a symbol. It may be taken from me, but it can never be taken from me. It may be burned and destroyed, but it will never be gone from my mind and heart. Those who wave it in the guise of patriotism, while castigating dissent in our midst, are misguided and wrong, and misunderstand its true meaning....
Not long ago there was a sign on the marquee of the Grand Lake Theatre near where I live - HONOR OUR TROOPS - BRING THEM HOME - PEACE IS PATRIOTIC - This in my mind speaks to the essence of what the flag represents - it is an idea, a vision, a belief, a heart-felt and deeply held sense - it is the most viable of means by which a people can live and work and agree and disagree together as we move forward as a country - it is difficult in the pursuit, but it is the only road that provides for the survival of our country, and a secure and free passage into the world of the future...
Afterthought: Those who espouse a constitutional amendment to outlaw flag burning as an act of desecration miss the point. Dissent, disagreement, and criticism of those who govern, even including the burning of our flag, are integral to our form of government - as dissent, it is the fullest meaning of freedom - and it is one of the checks and balances that gives perspective to those who govern. The flag is a symbol, and is in itself only a referent for what it represents. What it represents cannot be taken away, destroyed, diminished, because that is within each of us. With the burning of a flag, its physical nature is gone, but what it represents remains, and is in the very defiance of the burning, demonstrated, strengthened, and validated. To make more of the flag than it is by outlawing the burning of it, places the emphasis in the wrong place, on the literal. Those who have fought and died to preserve what the flag represents, an idea, did so not for the physical flag but for what it refers to - let it forever fly within...
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