I ironed my American flag yesterday.
But first, a bit of background.
Seven years ago, on Sept. 11, I was living in Manhattan and watched the second airplane hit the World Trade Center from a sidewalk a mile from where I lived. An hour later, I started walking home. My apartment building back then was directly across from the Hell’s Angels clubhouse. As I turned the corner, I was greeted by the Hell’s Angels American flag hanging from a line stretching across the street. The flag is really big – size XXXXXL; probably more than 6×10 feet.
That was the first instance of 9-11-related American flag I can remember. As far as I’m concerned, the country took its lead from the Hell’s Angels. Their response to the terrorist attack – I interpret it as defiance and pride – gave me a lift, a feeling that we were all in this together. If further attacks were coming, at least I was living next to some badasses who’d put up a fight.
But I didn’t buy a flag of my own. The country was up to its eyeballs in patriotism and I didn’t want to add to it.
Zoom ahead seven years. I’m preparing to go to the Olympics in Beijing, to be an American in a sea of Chinese. It was time to represent.
Also, the mood in U.S has toned down. We are, I think, a humbler nation. so I’ll take up the slack a bit, promote the American brand.
My first flag purchase was tentative: a small one on a stick.
Watching the swimming finals one morning I sat next to an Australian guy whose flag was big enough to wear as a cape. And he could fold his up. He didn’t have to deal with the unwieldy stick, or wave his banner impotently. So I upgraded to a larger model – the kind you can stretch between your extended arms and hope to get on TV.
It’s back home now. A memento.
My bedroom is the showpiece of my apartment; the decor is pretty good – nice color scheme, good artwork, tasteful furniture – except for the wall above my bed’s headboard: a blank space. I didn’t want to hang a painting lest it one day fall on me. Enter the flag. If it ever falls on me I may not even notice. And its such a potent symbol of things you may love or hate, not what you’d expect to find in my apartment. And I must say, looking at it, it’s transformed the bed; being on the bed has become something. And I wonder what my neighbors across the street (I’ve moved) might imagine about me, if they ever imagine about me.
Until yesterday, though it still had the creases from being folded. So I turned on the iron and set it to lowest heat, paid attention to not let its nylon fabric touch the ground, and thought about all the travels and adventures I’ve enjoyed recently.