From the nation’s revolutionary battlefields, to the uniforms of Union soldiers, to the surface of the moon, America’s flag has appeared during nearly every major event and on all important national landmarks throughout our history. It is also present in some more unlikely places — namely, my dorm room wall.
My 2-by-3-foot American flag is hung with the same removable mounting putty as my Kamala Harris “You think you just fell out of a coconut tree?” poster and a colorful “RESIST” sign. Of everything on the wall, it’s the American flag that feels out of place. But why? Why is my dorm room an unlikely place to find an American flag? What makes my celebration of America’s 250th birthday just as surprising?
Theoretically, flags are universal patriotic symbols, common to a nation’s citizens regardless of their ideology. In practice, this is not entirely true — at least not in the United States. In fact, Americans who align with the ideological right are highly likely to own an American flag, with 69% of conservatives having one. Moving leftward on the political spectrum, however, the percentage of Americans who have a flag decreases significantly, with only 32% of liberals saying they own one. A similar divide is seen in different age demographics. Nearly 70% of those 65 and older own an American flag, whereas only about a third of 18 to 29 year-olds report having one.
According to the same polling data, these numbers are paralleled for levels of patriotism. An astounding 90% of those 65 and older and 93% of conservatives identify as at least somewhat patriotic, compared to 58% of 18 to 29 year-olds and 58% of liberals.
Being so intertwined with age and ideological markers, as well as other demographic traits like race and gender, flying a flag now seems to carry with it certain prerequisites. As a liberal-leaning 19-year-old, I do not meet them.
The Flag’s Divided Truth
Today, displaying the flag often communicates something more than national identity. For some Americans, it signals support of a certain political community. For others, however, a Pride flag, Black Lives Matter poster, or campaign sign may resonate more deeply than the Stars and Stripes. Increasingly, Americans seem to be using different symbols to express belonging, while the national symbol that was meant to unite us becomes weighed down by political overtones.
I notice this reality in my own reaction to the American flag. Recently, I have found myself grimacing when I see a particularly loud display of red, white, and blue for the upcoming anniversary. “That’s so out of touch,” I think to myself. “Have they not been paying attention?”
On the one hand, the American flag has become associated with a kind of patriotism that is demanding and exclusive. Under what is often called a “love it or leave it” conception, flying a flag means having enough faith in American excellence to overlook its failures. Protest is seen as ungrateful, dissent as disloyal, and criticism as un-American.
As destructive as this kind of patriotism is, the flip side is no more restorative. Many Americans flinch at displays of patriotism, viewing any expression of pride as naive and suspect. They believe those who fly a flag must be perilously forgiving or ignorant of the many persistent defects of the United States.
Either way, the issue of patriotism and the American flag feels politically charged to many. But when exactly did that happen? Looking back through American history, we find something much more complicated and unsettling about the Stars and Stripes: They never represented a true, unanimous vision for the country.
After winning the Revolutionary War, Americans gazed at the flag, marveling at their newfound independence, while Indigenous people were introduced to a symbol of their stolen land and culture.
In 1814, while Francis Scott Key immortalized the “broad stripes and bright stars” in America’s national anthem, the horrors of slavery formed the rifts of a civil war and the creation of an opposing Confederate flag.
In 1969, when we landed on the moon, we solidified American power by planting our flag on the serene lunar surface, while on the other side of our own planet, Americans were sent to fight and die trying to exert that power in the jungles of Vietnam.
On Jan. 6, 2021, insurrectionists waved our flag as a call to arms at the same time an identical flag flew atop the U.S. Capitol that they were storming, standing for the very democracy they attacked.
These moments reveal a recurring truth about the American experience. The same symbol that has united Americans in tragedy and in triumph, that has stood for the ideals of freedom and liberty to bridge our differences, has been invoked to divide, destroy, and excuse. To focus only on America’s triumphs is to ignore half the story. Yet to focus only on its failures is just the same.
In Pursuit of a More Perfect Patriotism
Outside of these moments of hypocrisy, the essence of the American flag seems to epitomize the complexity of our great nation. The very freedom the flag represents allows us to burn it. While protesting the nation, Americans are using the rights secured by that very same nation. Even more strikingly, the ceremonial way to retire a flag is the same way many choose to protest it: burning.
That complexity is precisely the point.
Patriotism necessarily entails criticism. Blind, indifferent, and unwavering pride in America is just as much a disservice as uncompromising criticism. Instead, it is time for us to embrace a more healing, unifying, and truly universal patriotism that is informed and responsible — one that takes ownership of America, for all its flaws, as the enduring project of our citizenry.
For America’s birthday, I hope for my celebrations to be understood as a commitment to continue striving for a more perfect union. Patriotism, as I understand it, does not require overlooking America’s failures. It requires taking responsibility for them.
America’s 250th anniversary arrives in the midst of a consequential midterm election season. While elections are, and have always been, defined by contest and competition, they are meant to be predicated on some common commitment to the nation and the greater good. Now, though, Americans seem united less by shared national aspirations than by opposition. Rather than centering on guiding principles, political identities and campaigns revolve around negativity and grievances. The semiquincentennial prompts a moment of reflection, forcing us to consider whether citizenship requires anything beyond opposition to political enemies.
In addition to the political climate, the United States is plagued with other serious and pervasive challenges: gun violence, political gridlock, declining trust in institutions, and entrenched disagreement about America’s past and future. This reality contextualizes a decrease in pride in America, explaining why some may feel hesitant about calling themselves patriotic.
Yet if patriotism depends on the notion that America is unimpeachably virtuous or uniquely beyond criticism, perhaps it deserves to decline. The patriotism worth preserving — the kind we desperately need — is something wholly different. It is not unbridled confidence that America has fulfilled its promises. It is a pledge to help it do so.
The question facing America at its 250th anniversary is not whether we will agree. We certainly won’t — not on our history, our symbols, or the right path forward. The question is how we will sustain the United States through its next 250 years — its next five years. The new era of the American experiment will depend not on consensus, but on investment in a shared national project. Thus, the challenge is not in embracing the same view of our flag, but in deciding that it belongs to all of us.
Today, amidst my other decor, I hang an American flag on my wall as a commitment to its unfinished promise. Today I embody patriotism as a loyal critic. Today, I say with pride:
Happy Birthday, America.
