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by Neal Pollack
11.01.98
when I was ten years old, my father called me outside. He was barbecuing ribs in the backyard.
"Son," he said, "there's something I want to give you."
Dad handed me a long cardboard box. I opened it to find a full-sized handmade American flag inside. I pressed it against my face. It felt soft and fresh.
"Dad," I gasped. "This is…incredible!"
"Read the note," he said.
Attached to the box was a little card. "Throw the flag on the grill," it read.
"Very funny, Dad," I said.
"I'm serious, son," he said. "I want you to put the flag on the barbecue."
"But…" I said. "The flag will burn!"
"That's the point," he said.
"I can't burn the flag! It's the symbol of everything our country stands for! My ancestors fought and died for this flag! It represents the hopes and dreams of—"
"Save the grade-school propaganda for later," Dad said. "And do what I say…"
Tears in my eyes, I placed the Star Spangled Banner over the burning coals. Soon, it was completely aflame, red-white-and-blue consumed in a blistering blaze of orange.
Dad had his hand over his heart. He was softly humming God Bless America.
"That's what this country is all about," he said. "That flag is worth nothing if a man can't burn it in his own backyard. It is a sacred American right."
I stared at the wisps of smoke coming off the grill in wonder, and in my heart, knew my dad was right.
