Three legs or four

It should surprise no one that I caught a bit of heat over my article published two weeks ago. It was admittedly caustic, and as is often the case, the Democrats accused me of being a mouthpiece for the Republicans, and the Republicans called me a flaming Liberal. That isn’t exactly how I wish to be regarded, but it tells me I’m in the right neighborhood.

For those of you who missed it, I discussed how the more extreme factions of both parties were monopolizing the discussion about our recent mass shootings with rhetoric that was more about ideology than problem-solving. That still seems to be the case, but I am reading and hearing more about measures that would improve security at schools and detect early signs of at-risk youth, particularly disaffected young men. I would like to think we are on the right track, but it’s too soon to be certain.

One notable comment came from a dear and respected friend who neither agreed, nor disagreed with me, but very firmly asserted that a sound foundation for a healthy society was based upon three specific tenets. Like the legs on a stool, she cited “family, church and education” as elements that are frequently absent when we look into the profiles of the troubled young men who commit mass shootings. With all respect to my friend, I would gently suggest that a three-legged stool isn’t as sturdy as those with four legs, and I have a suggestion as to what that fourth leg might be, but first I have to tell you about my fourth-grade teacher.

Mrs. Booth was already ancient in the 1970s. Between her snow-white up-do and her pearl-clutching demeanor, she embodied the stereotypical 19th-century “school-marm.” There is no amount of hyperbole I can use to adequately describe how rigid, taciturn, and humorless she was. Ironically, fourth grade was the year that we studied the Civil War. We understood that “Booth” was her married name, but I don’t think there were many among us who didn’t imagine her bouncing on the knee of John Wilkes Booth himself.

Mrs. Booth was a ruthless authoritarian, and I can’t recall a more miserable year of school, but I must give her credit in one particular department. She taught patriotism. There was an American flag in our classroom, a custom that was seldom questioned at the time. Each day, one of the students would be selected to hold the flag as we recited the Pledge of Allegiance, and then we sang. She taught us “The Star Spangled Banner,” “America the Beautiful,” “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” “My Country ‘tis of Thee,” and on Fridays, “Yankee Doodle Dandy.” It was all a cappella, of course, and I don’t think we were ready for Ed Sullivan or the Ted Mack Amateur Hour, but by the end of the year, those songs were a part of our DNA, and they are still with me today.

That year paled to some degree in comparison with my private school days. We were not only allowed to sing, “God Bless America,” but then we would go to morning chapel services and sing, “Onward Christian Soldiers.” My more liberal friends today would be horrified at the thought of little kids singing songs that celebrate the Crusades, but that’s a different article for a different week.

Getting back to my friend, I would simply ask that she consider patriotism as the fourth leg of her more easily tipped stool. I’m not advocating for the symbol-obsessed, gung-ho brand of patriotism that turns a blind eye to the mistakes we’ve made throughout the years. I would prefer to see a patriotism that recognizes the unique qualities of our country and those values that make people risk their lives to come here. I would want our children to appreciate just how radical the thought of equality among people was in the 18th century, even if it took a civil war and more than 200 years to achieve it on paper, and a continued effort to realize it in practice.

Do I have any illusion that patriotism might stop mass shootings? Of course not, but as I reflect on the summer of 2020 in Portland and January 6 of 2021 in Washington DC; and when I see athletes “taking a knee” during the National Anthem, and those who openly advocate for dramatic changes to our economy and form of government, I can’t help but think that Mrs. Booth was on the right track.

In all fairness, I have to admit to a bit of hypocrisy on my part. While I don’t particularly care for those who take a knee at football games, I thought the raised fists at the ‘68 Mexico Olympics were pretty cool, and I still do. In that case, the raised fist was a new kind of salute in the 1960s. It was a salute that expressed pride and independence, tinged with a healthy dose of defiance that had a familiar resonance to those of us who sang about the “land where my fathers died,” and “America, the bold.” In retrospect, I can’t help but think that in her own odd way, Mrs. Booth was kind of cool too.