I was 11 years old the first time I remember seeing a flag at half mast. I was in the 6th grade and it was right after 9/11. Our teacher had to set aside time in class to explain what it meant, that there was a national tragedy, that we should take time to pause, to pray, to mourn. We didn’t understand then, not really, but we listened with too young ears as they instructed us on how to raise it just so. They let us touch the chain, one by one, and hoist it up, and we stood in reverent silence at how heavy it all felt.
On the way to work this morning I see flags half flown, and I’m not even sure which tragedy it’s supposed to symbolize. In between watching the game this weekend I saw snippets of the news, but I couldn’t get past the first 2 words “Today’s shootings…”. I watched with distant fascination at how the anchors could say those words with such a calm tone and even face, but in a sense they have a point. This is just the horror for the day. No need to really process, to really feel it, to really care. There will probably be a new one tomorrow.
I wonder, on my way to work, what kids in school feel when they see the flag half raised. I wonder if they even notice. And as I pass each flag floating limply at midpoint in a tepid fall breeze, I wonder at the irony in the promise to make America great again. This is not greatness. Something stirs, and for the first time I can remember I want so desperately to see our flag flying proud. and high. and free.
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