During a recent trip to visit my daughter and her family, my granddaughter, Penelope, was excited to show me that she’d learned The Pledge of Allegiance.
As I watched and listened, I wondered how long it had been since I recited the pledge — decades? Penelope is only 3 (though she always insists I add, “and-a-half!”), so I’m pretty sure she doesn’t understand the meaning behind the words. Admittedly, nor did I when I first memorized the pledge. My fellow classmates and I would rotely recite the words each morning, with hardly a thought to their meaning.
But as I listened to Penelope, several phrases caught my attention and inspired me to think more deeply about the pledge. So, over the next couple of weeks, as we approach the 250th anniversary of our independence, I’ll post my thoughts on a few of those phrases.
I’ll start with a post about the history of the Pledge of Allegiance.
The very first pledge was written in 1885 by Union Army officer, Captain George Thatcher Balch:
“We give our heads and our hearts to God and our country; one country, one language, one flag.”
According the History.com, “Several schools adopted Balch’s pledge, but it was soon supplanted by a salute composed by Francis Bellamy, a Christian socialist and former Baptist minister. In 1892, while working for a magazine called The Youth’s Companion, Bellamy was enlisted to write a new pledge for use in patriotic celebrations surrounding the 400th anniversary of Christopher Columbus’s arrival in the New World. The magazine partnered with schools to encourage flag ceremonies and sold American flags as part of the initiative.”
Even Bellamy’s version underwent many changes over the years:
According the History.com, prior to 1942 when Congress officially adopted the pledge and decreed it should be recited while holding the right hand over the heart, the pledge was recited using a “Bellamy salute,” where the right arm was extended toward the flag with the hand outstretched. Sound familiar?
. . . but with the rise of fascism in Europe, many felt the gesture too closely resembled a Nazi salute. ~ History.com, Evan Andrews
Today, 46 states require public schools to recite the pledge. The four states that do not are Hawaii, Iowa, Vermont, and Wyoming. (SmithsonianMag.com, Amy Crawford)
In a case brought by Jehovah’s Witness families in 1943, (West Virginia State Board of Education v. Barnette,) the U.S. Supreme Court ruled that public schools could not force students to recite the pledge or salute the flag.
UP NEXT: Thoughts on the phrase, “I pledge allegiance to the Flag . . .”
Many of you know I’ve been working on a memoir for the last couple of years. My working title is Unrequited. As you might guess from the title, the book is about unrequited love. I’ve had many loves in my life. Three were, and are, unrequited.
As with most first-time memoirists, I often have to keep recurring thoughts at bay. They are like sludge in my writing engine.
THOUGHT #1:Why would anyone be interested in my story? In the end, I’ve decided it doesn’t matter. It’s been a journey of self-discovery for me. Perhaps reading it will be a journey of discovery for readers, too.
THOUGHT #2: Will I, a recovering “good-girl-perfectionist” ever have the nerve to actually publish it, to show my flawed, human self? – This is the biggie, mostly because I haven’t yet conquered the rampart of wanting to be perfect in my kids’ eyes.
My solution to THOUGHT #2 is to release bits and pieces as my courage allows, to test the proverbial waters. Perhaps if I take baby-steps, my courage will grow until, once it’s complete and ready to be published, I will be, as my friend Ruth calls me, Samurai Jan — fearless.
Some posts will be excerpts, and other posts, like this one, will be thoughts about the memoir, or something I’ll share that represents one of my three “Unrequiteds.”
You may wonder how I can write this memoir while married. “What does you husband think?” Many have asked me that question. “How does he feel about you thinking about these three men?”
Let me just say, I could not write this memoir without Steve’s support. There is nothing he doesn’t know about my past, and nothing he doesn’t know about my feelings. We often have conversations about the importance of “AND” in life. He understands that I can still have the feelings I have AND love him. It’s not a case of EITHOR/OR. In fact, I love him more because he understands me. We’ve had many conversations about these three unrequited relationships and how they’ve shaped my life. I’m grateful for our openness and for his support.
I have not gotten absolute permission from the Unrequiteds to use their names yet. (More like, “Maybe. We’ll see.”) Once the memoir is complete, I will ask Unrequited #1 and Unrequited #2 about using at least their first names — after they’ve had a chance to read what I’ve written. Sadly, I will not be able to get that permission from Unrequited #3, as he took his own life in 2015.
I’ve completed the first drafts for Unrequited #1 and Unrequited #2. In the past few months, I’ve been working on Unrequited #3’s story. As you might imagine, it’s the most painful to write. #3 and I wrote countless emails to each other during our relationship, and I still have them, though I haven’t really gone through them for many, many years, perhaps back to 2003.
Reading through them takes a lot of emotional energy, leaving me with little energy or desire to put words on paper for the memoir. Finding letters I’d forgotten about is like reliving the joy of the beginning of the relationship, as well as the “out-of-synch” desperation we each felt at the end. It was an end neither of us wanted, but an end neither of us could see our way around. It’s also like reliving his suicide again, the same feeling of guilt and helplessness, of so many questions, of never and forever. At times, I’ve even had the same feeling I had when I learned he had died — the feeling of having the breath sucked out of me.
While reading through old letters and writings, I found this poem I wrote shortly after his death. I don’t know if I’ll use it in the memoir, but I’ll share it with you now. #3 and I shared a love of sailing. He taught me to sail, thus the sailing metaphor.
Fair Winds
Beyond the shallow reef,
the deep sea beckoned,
and he set out to sea
in the sailboat he loved,
the sailboat they’d shared.
He headed toward a setting sun
so intense with color,
he thought he might reach it.
There at last, he’d end
his long, lonely drift
through the interminable inlet
where years before
he’d made a wrong turn.
Clouds billowed above as he cursed
the unwelcome intruder that blasted
through his once-impenetrable wall –
the thought of her.
It was preposterous that
he could ever keep her out.
She was mixed in the very mortar
that fortified his thorny wall.
The last remnants of sunlight
touched his skin as
his weary bones drank the warmth.
Only a little farther and
he’d kill the engine,
the incessant, droning chug-chug,
the foul smell of diesel.
And at last, he’d succumb to the wind,
his greatest teacher, a simile for life yet,
he’d been a poor student,
so he leaned forward toward
the outskirts of the key,
as if he could rush the wind.
He should have said goodbye.
She would wonder why he left,
but what could he say?
Once they’d shared countless words,
once no words were necessary.
He should have left a note,
but there were no words.
Fog rolled in and melancholic blue waves
lapped against the hull,
cooing as they rocked the boat
and lulled his soul. “Here. Here.”
He steadied the rudder,
hand hovering over the kill switch,
keen for the silence he longed
to have enfold him.
He should have left a note.
Her heart would break that he hadn’t,
but there were no words
The main sail shuddered,
teased by the wind.
From the corner of his eye,
a blink of light on the port side –
the last buoy,
rocking back and forth,
its bell echoing in thick fog.
Fare-well. Fare-well.
Inhaling the salt-air perfume,
once, twice,
he was primed for the wind’s silence.
Yet his rumination of her
interrupted once again,
until he implored his fingers
to turn off the engine,
turn off the noise.
They obliged.
No words.
No goodbye.
Only silence.
Funny how working on a memoir can trigger memories. It’s as if writing about my life events fertilizes the soil of my soul, opening my mind and heart to stimuli that brings new memories to bloom.
With the first notes of the melody, I was whisked back to a time when I was maybe twelve years old. Back to Fairfield, California. Back to my living room with the green shag carpet and the gold tweed sectional where I sat and listened to my mom practice that very song in preparation for a performance with the community theater, The Belfry Players.
I was in awe of my mother’s voice. Though at twelve, I’m not so sure I knew the meaning of the word, “sultry,” as I think about her voice now, I would describe it as sultry, yet sweet and full of longing. And there was no better song for her to spotlight the characteristics of her voice that “Bésame Mucho.”
So, I asked her what the lyrics meant. What I most remember was the translation of the title: Kiss Me Much.
Oh, yes. Longing. In the words of the song, the way my mother’s voice surrounded me, I knew my she felt the longing, and I felt it, too.
She must have missed my father, who spent so much time away on his Air Force trips. Seeing my mother’s longing throughout much of my childhood, I sometimes wonder if it planted a seed of longing in me, too — a perennial flower that blossomed, died and blossomed again, many times throughout my life.
Through much of my childhood, we all missed my dad when he was away. We longed for his return, when everything at last, would be right with my mom and right with our world.
Almost exactly a year ago, I wrote another post about my awkwardness in a gym fitness class I attend at University Hospital Fitness Center: Flight of the Flamingo – Or Not.
In yesterday’s class, I once again laughed at myself as my gaze bounced between watching the instructor’s every move and watching my reflection in the mirror, disappointed time-after-time that my moves looked nowhere near the adorable instructor’s.
So, am I enlightened, or unhinged?
I mean, Kelly-the-Instructor was everything my physical self has wanted to be since I was fourteen-years-old. Petite, lean, limber, perky, bouncy, adorable. And her dance moves! Oh, she tried to help out my fellow classmates and me by using descriptions like, “tornado,” or “shark,” or “punch,” or “shimmy.”
But when someone yelled, “Shake your ta-tas,” (can’t remember if it was a song lyric or if she shouted it,” all I could think was, “nah-nah, not me.” (Though embarrassingly, I’ll admit, I did try—but just once.)
At one point, I was reminded of the documentary “America’s Sweethearts,” about the young women who give everything in their attempts to be a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader. Oh, not that I was ANYWHERE CLOSE to thinking I could have ever done that, but I realized just how hard it is to do what they make look so easy. Not only did Kelly-the-Instructor make it look easy, she was having FUN as she danced in front of us. (Or she was faking it really well.) No matter how hard I faked it, I don’t think I looked like I was having fun. But actually, I was—laughing at myself! (BTW, I highly recommend America’s Sweethearts on Netflix!)
But what the heck. Afterwards I told Kelly-the Instructor I enjoyed her class, even though I felt awkward through 95% of it. At least I was moving – like a grandmotherly cheerleader wanna-be!
I like how my friend, Linda Austin distinguishes between sympathy and empathy in her post, Sympathy vs. Empathy and the Importance of Memoir. I’ve often thought our empathy “muscle” is weakening because we don’t use it enough.
I also believe social media is a cancer upon empathy. How can we see through another’s eyes, feel what a person feels, with a 280-character post (X) or a snippet of information (Facebook, Instagram)? Even worse, AI makes it difficult to even know what’s true, and it’s getting worse. Even worse than that, the algorithms that determine what appears on our pages serves only to thicken the walls of our silos.
The sad thing is, most of us are not happy with the direction we’re headed, that is, to be driven further and further apart, with less and less understanding — not of the other side, but of each other.
Yet, we continue to walk a path that is pre-determined by those algorithms, blind to people who walk beside us, people who also wear blinders born by a lack of empathy.
Jan Morrill Writes 