I pledge allegiance to... the Pride flag?

Why are there tons of Pride flags but no American flags in my city's schools?

Friends, fellow Americans, and a few others,

Happy Flag Day! Today we celebrate the adoption of the American flag by Congress in 1777.

When I was a kid, we used to say the Pledge of Allegiance to the flag every morning in school. There was no “if” about saying the Pledge. You did, or you got in trouble. There was a lot of controversy about “under God” back in those days, but we said the Pledge all right.

I have worked in dozens of public schools in Reading, PA and Philadelphia, and I have never once heard the Pledge of Allegiance said. I have only ever seen one American flag. Oddly enough, that was in the classroom where I taught 7th and 8th grade English last year - or tried to. I remember while the kids were taking the PSSA (our standardized test in PA) I would stare at the flag and think, “How has it come to this?” I knew that maybe one of my students would perform at grade level.

[Sweet kid, that one. He was the only one who brought a real breakfast to school. Every morning, he would show up, usually second after his buddy who was the son of the head of the cafeteria service. The smartest boy in the class, let’s call him Andrew because that’s not his name (though he had a very white sounding name for a black kid) would come to class, greet me with a very polite, “Good morning, Ms. Smith,” take his seat at the table with his three best friends (the sweetest boys who insisted on cleaning the classroom multiple times a day - it needed it!) and unwrap his foil covered breakfast sandwich. Whole wheat bread, turkey bacon, and egg and cheese, every morning. A proper breakfast for a growing boy. I asked if his parents made the sandwich and he said, no, they bought it every morning at the corner deli on their way to school. But those parents got Andrew a healthy breakfast. And he was the only kid who could read and write at grade level.]

When I walked into the lobby of the giant (regular district, not charter) high school very close to my apartment sometime last year, I saw one overwhelming feature: a giant, I mean gargantuan, Pride of all sorts flag. You know, the one that looks like the Palestinian flag had a bad acid trip and dreamed of the Grateful Dead then threw up? That one.

I thought it was some version of the Palestinian flag until my friend who has had more exposure to the T+ side of the LGBT+++ community than she would like explained what it is.

The all-inclusive of everything except straight people flag was in the prominent place where you might think a school would display an American flag. But no, there is never an American flag seen on any of these properties. Not outside on a flagpole, not inside anywhere. You can’t find one. Unless there’s one hidden in the boys’ bathroom, there’s not a flag onsite.

Meanwhile, the Pride flags are everywhere. Each classroom at my old school had a sign with the Pride flag that read, “This is a welcoming classroom.” The halls had signs that said, “How to be an ally” and outlined several points that all should follow:

• Don’t associate with homophobic people.

• Don’t tell or laugh at homophobic jokes.

I can’t recall the other points but you get the idea.

I completely support people’s right to date, sleep with and marry whomever they want. I support people’s right to transition if they are adults who are sure that’s what they want to do. My actual closest of two friends in the world transitioned at 60. By then, you know. She is, btw, way more conservative than I am.

I have no problem with the Pride flag being displayed. But why is there no American flag? After all, being an American is what gives us the ability to express our sexuality and gender identity! Our country has come a very long way in this respect, progress that we should be proud of. The Muslim countries that Queers for Palestine revere would not be so kind to them.

There were also a lot of Pan-African and Black Power flags:

Okay. It’s an all black school, and while I question the wisdom of teaching black kids nothing but black literature and black history, I can be okay with Pan-African flags.

Still, we are all Americans. Not only that, we are Pennsylvanians. Where are the American flags and the Pennsylvania flags?

To walk around the schools, you’d think that we live in a mishmash of African countries that is entirely LGBT with some people who are asexual or questioning running about. You almost want to put a question mark in the middle of the flag, the whole thing is so confusing.

At this point, I’m ready to pledge allegiance to that guy.

The kids I taught were rarely unsure about their genders. The boys performed masculinity and the girls performed femininity pretty consistently. Boys were quick to argue and as quick as they could be to violence, given that the school did a pretty good job of reigning that in. The girls had beautiful hair and nails, a topic that we could always enjoy discussing. A few of the kids were openly gay, a total of one I knew appeared to be presenting as a male though was born a female. No one questioned this student’s choice of pronouns, and I went along.

Being an “ally” had rewards. The very out “they” teacher, who called themselves “Teacher ___” instead of Mr. or Ms., held parties for so-called allies in their classroom. The parties involved food, so all the kids suddenly wanted to be allies on party days, even if they had not completed the required ally tasks in advance. Political movements run on food, so I get it.

Being an ally was socially acceptable, even required. Being a patriot - that would have been off-putting and discouraged.

I so wanted to ask Mr. M., “Where are the American flags?” I wonder what he would have said. There was so much I wanted to ask him. I never would have been able to, even if I’d worked there permanently. There were things you could not say. I knew that and everyone else knew that.

There were things you could not say that I have to say. As Solzhenitsyn and my boyfriend from 1993 are my witness, I can not live by lies.

It’s Flag Day and school is out, even the latest of the schools that stay open way past when any of the kids are paying attention. No one will pledge allegiance to anything but their phone, the snacks at the corner store, and maybe the game of basketball.

I went to yoga today at the yoga studio in the neighborhood. I know the owner well, a very nice woman who now identifies as “they.” I’ve known them since they were a she and a yoga teacher, not yet the studio owner. I knew them when they were single, before they married a woman who is very nice, an acupuncture practitioner who makes her office (and goes by she) in the studio building, along with other bodywork and therapy practitioners. A thriving American business, the true American dream: making a living doing what they love, providing a service that no one has to have to survive, but that people are willing to pay good money for because they value it. They create jobs for the people who teach and work at the studio, and give space for others to practice their chosen profession and make money doing it. But being good a good leftist of this neighborhood so blue it looks like it’s on the verge of death by strangulation, they do not fly the American flag.

“It’s Flag Day, and my mother’s birthday,” I heard Kari, the owner, announce to a few people at the desk after class.

“Indeed it is,” I said. “Where are our American flags?”

“You know, I don’t even know…” Kari said, and turned their attention to someone else. Kari knows me well enough to know that I pay my bill, show up and am grateful for the yoga class, and will give her a bit of playful teasing outside of class. In this neighborhood, if you want to live, you have to learn to agree to disagree.

I want my own American flag for my apartment window. It’s been a long time since I took down the Biden Harris signs from 2020 and the DA Larry Krasner sign from the same year. To be honest, I’ve been a little afraid to put an American flag up. I know that if I put an Israeli flag in my window I’d get a brick through it.

But it would make me happy to just put a little American flag in the kitchen window. I am an American, and proud to be one. With the possible exception of Israel, this is the greatest country on earth.

I painted my nails red for the first time in years this week, for a variety of reasons too complex and personal for a blog. The decision of nail color is one that women do not take lightly, and I take it more seriously than some, if not most.

“Don’t mess with what works,” said my buddy Mark Judge, always an advocate for red nails. He’s right, you know.

I wonder if my days of pink and purple glitter are over. I am no longer a public school teacher. I’m no longer purple.

I actually think the red looks good, even though I wondered if I should not wear it based on the old, “Redheads shouldn’t wear red,” rule. But when I look at my nails, they look classic and classy

The ring is my fortieth birthday ring. I wear it on my wedding ring finger because I wear my great grandmother’s wedding ring, a gift from my mother on my thirtieth birthday, on my right hand. Every once in awhile someone asks if it’s an engagement ring, but it’s not. My close friend gave it to me eleven years ago, and I never take it off. I think someone would have brought it to my attention if I were engaged. Rarely do such things escape me.

I don’t think I’m quite up for doing these for July 4th, but maybe I’ll change my mind

Or perhaps someday I’ll attend an election night victory party in a red dress. And I’m pretty sure which flag would be flying at that event.