Lee Greenwood can suck it.

Recently a friend of mine stated that he had about as much in common with someone from Kansas as he did with the average Iraqi, so why should he care about dead troops, when he should be more concerned about the loss of human life in general.  I agree, we shouldn't be so focused on the loss of "American" life, as to lose the bigger picture, which is the loss of life.  This got me thinking though, about an altogether different subject other than dead people, which, yes, I see.  With alarming regularity.  I started contemplating just what it is to be "American", to be "patriotic", to "be proud of your country".  

Let's start with patriotism, because that is a word that I absolutely despise.  Abhor.  Loathe.  Hate, even.  Lao Tzu, and I'm paraphrasing here, said that as a civilization declines, patriotism rises.  One only has to look at the current state of the Union to agree with that.  We had to give patriotism it's own act, for crying out loud.  I for one, think that ideological love for one's homeland is silly, bordering on dangerous.  Like a special needs kid playing with a lighter.  Chances are nothing will happen, but he just might figure it out enough to burn himself.  Or God forbid, start a fire.  Off topic here, but go back to those last two sentences and pretend the special needs kid is named, oh I don't know...George.  See where I'm heading with this?

What is it to be "American"?  To be white?  Middle class?  Some might argue that it is more American to be working class, but I doubt they have any idea how filthy rich our founding fathers were...  To be born here?  I happen to be all of those things (well, 'middle class' is a bit of a stretch.  I'm a fairly low-class individual.), but I certainly don't feel more "American" than the latinos I work with.  Less so, sometimes.  I'm just saying, is being "American" a set of guidelines, or is it more of a state of mind?  And if that is the case, I've met some Oregon hippies that are certainly not American.

Lastly, pride.  Beside the fact that it does indeed cometh before a fall, people have it spades when it comes to a particular hunk of dirt they call Home.  What I don't get is why.  Because my parents totally had sex in a small northern town in California rather than Canada (or Sri Lanka, or whichever country you feel like objectively inserting here), I'm expected to puff my chest and grunt "U.S.A!" every time the fourth day in July rolls around.  The mighty Mos Def once said that, "It ain't where you're from, it's where you're at."  And while I tend to agree somewhat with that, I would add this caveat- It ain't where you're from, or where you're at.  It's where you intend to go.

So no, I'm not a fan of patriotism, of being American.  I'm not proud of the United States.  I'd like to think there is more to me, much more than such small little coincidences that have collided into forming the big bang that is my life.