Independence Day
Against a teal and gold Art Deco pattern, three sets of two matches each are joined together at the head to create a heart.
Patriarchy demands fealty in exchange for theoretical protection from theoretical dangers. It appoints itself the sole authority to discern and decide what constitutes danger. It cares nothing for you. You, your children, everyone who came before, everyone who will come in the future, are simply pawns. It's aptly described by a toast given by an American naval hero at a public dinner in Virginia in 1816:
"Our country; in her intercourse with other nations may she be always right; and always successful, right or wrong."
Patriarchy is, then, the diseased family dynamic writ large; it's "Daddy's always right, even when he's wrong," the "...or he'll take it out on you," left unsaid but strongly implied. And it's what passes for patriotism in this country. A fraught word, patriotism. It shares a root with patriarchy: the Greek pater (father), patris (fatherland), patriotes (fellow countryman). At its simplest level, it means caring for your fellow human. It means putting love into action.
It means love.
Love has many antonyms, and our current situation is just one. But love has, I wholeheartedly believe, far more synonyms than antonyms. Here in Southern California, where I was born and raised, we are overflowing with those synonyms. People from different parts of the world living cheek by jowl with one another will have their skirmishes, yes—and the rest of us will have our worldviews opened wide. Differences unite us because they force us to realize that this deeply flawed and wildly promising core of humanity exists inside each one of us. (And don't even get me started on the cuisine, both traditional and beautifully, deliciously fused. Straight fire.)
To be clear: things are always far from perfect here, and always will be. (See "deeply flawed," above.) But when I clear away the lazy, small ways in which the word patriotism has been used—when I think about its roots—what I'm left with is this: the bags of lemons and persimmons our Filipino neighbors leave on our doorknob, freshly picked from their yard. The gentle and friendly, "Hello, neighbor," spoken to me by an older Black gentleman on the next block when I'm out walking my dog. The white man around the corner who always waves and tells me how beautiful that dog is. The Mexican mother and daughters two blocks over who smile broadly and say hello when I go past.
Small things. Small actions. All of them, love.
I care about these people. By and large I don't even know their names, but they matter to me. Our lives are tied together by virtue of existing in the same place, at the same time. We should matter to one another.
So on this day commemorating the notion of independence from the ultimate and most extreme form of patriarchy—a monarch—I am not thinking big thoughts about loving America. (For starters, it's the United States of America, or the US, because America is a continent.) What I'm thinking is that no matter what is going on around us, or to us, we've got to love one another. That's it. That's the whole mission. Love.
That's the only kind of patriotism I'm interested in.
