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I wasn’t going to say a word. I thought I could just bury it inside and move beyond it. I could simply avoid social conversations for a while, switch off the TV news and toss out the newspapers for the next month or so ... and eventually, I’d feel a little bit better.
Of course, I would also explode into millions and millions of tiny pieces.
And so, I’m just going to say it, and then I won’t talk about it again for a very long time:
I want my picture book back.
You see, when I was in first grade, my teacher, Mrs. Snodgrass, had a special routine she followed each and every day after our lunch and recess. She’d have us sit quietly at our desks. She’d turn off the overhead lights and partially close the blinds. And then she’d sit silently behind her big wooden desk for a long moment. The rays of the afternoon sun would gently dance on the globe and play with the nearby stars and stripes. And in that tiny classroom – in that moment – all seemed right with the world.
And then Mrs. Snodgrass would pull out the book. It was a marvelous book. In it were stories of men and women who had done wondrous things. There were tales of great documents of freedom and giant bells that rang for liberty despite their cracks. And on every page there were pictures – amazing illustrations of pioneers in covered wagons, of suffering at a place called Valley Forge, of heated debates between a short, pudgy man and a freer of slaves named Abraham Lincoln. There were pictures of mountains and oceans and eagles soaring and beautiful glowing cities. There were pages of smiling people – from all lands and nations – looking to a great land for guidance and peace. There were words of “we the people” and “in God we trust.” And everywhere there were beams of light.
Looking at those pictures, at those rays of illumination streaming from behind the stormy clouds, I just knew that the stories they depicted were good and honest and true. I knew that those lives lived and lives lost meant something. And as Mrs. Snodgrass read each new story and as I learned that I was a part of that history – a part of an America built upon foundations of patriotic dreams and of noble causes – I came to truly love that picture book. And I came to love this country.
The stories Mrs. Snodgrass read to us from those bound pages truly resonated in my heart and soul. They became the foundation of my strong and steadfast patriotic beliefs in this great land, as well as my faith in its people to carry on its dreams.
As I grew older and learned that no history is as beautifully painted in reality as it was in the pages of that book, I still held fast to my belief and faith in the works of our founding fathers and in the American people. Nothing I learned or encountered invalidated my picture book. I still believed.
Life plodded ahead. As a very young child, I witnessed great men and leaders of generations cut down in their prime. Through the window of my cardboard box spaceship I watched the flickering images on a TV screen as an American flag was planted on the moon. I smiled as dividing walls crumbled and I cried as proud towers fell. And I always believed. Somehow I always saw those painted beams of light defeating the dark clouds.
And then I noticed a change.
It started ever so subtly, ever so freely. But I’m amazed at how quickly the clouds overtook those precious beams of light. Maybe it was allowed to happen because people were still grieving or angry ... maybe because some were just too lazy and foolish, putting their faith and trust too easily in the wrong hands.
Oh, some people spoke up. With facts and with proof they exclaimed, “This is wrong! This is not what we stand for, not what we believe!” They did just as the heroes in my picture book had done.
But this time, scores of American people looked the other way – or only saw what they wanted to see, or perhaps, what others told them was there. And of course, there were the “settlers” – not the brave pioneers – but the lamest of lame who would rather vegetate in front of their TeeVees with Ceetos and pork rinds than actually take a moment to think, take a stand and act regarding their lives and the real world around them. God forbid they should miss the latest makeover or who gets voted out of the house – despite the crumbling walls in their own midst.
And so, as the rays faded, distortions grew. Fabrications were crafted and stories that would have never made it into Mrs. Snodgrass’ picture book were touted as Truth.
Those smiling people – from all lands and nations – were seeing the makings of a bully far more than a peacemaker.
Arrogance reigned – as the second-highest leader in America spouted vulgarities to a fellow lawmaker in the hallowed Senate chambers. And in this land of “in God we trust,” voices actually had the audacity to rise up and say that to be against their choice for a leader was to be against God himself. Prejudices and personal opinions were repackaged and labeled as “moral values,” and ignorance and flawed policies were camouflaged to appear as the steadfastness of a caring and common man.
Sure, flags were still waved, but mostly just to fan the lies. And with so many distractions piled one on top of another, the truth was barely visible among the debris.
But despite it all, I knew in my heart of hearts that the American people were smart enough and decent enough to reclaim the ideals for which America stands. I knew that come that first Wednesday morning in November I would wake to find an America once again blessed with a “new birth of freedom,” a land of brave and patriotic citizens who had joined together in one voice to say “enough is enough.”
But what I found instead, that sad, disparaging day, was that my beloved picture book had vanished. What had faithfully and reassuringly accompanied me everyday of my life since the age of seven was now nowhere to be seen.
Now, let me be quite clear in all of this – mine was not at all a feeling of sour grapes. It went far beyond what one might feel after simply losing at a game. Mine was a strange and empty feeling – as if someone close to me had died. Upon closer examination, it was not a someone, but a something.
I had lost my faith in the judgment and the goodness of the American people.
When I woke that morning, I discovered that I lived in a country where over half of its citizens were total strangers to me. They held beliefs and supported leaders that were so foreign and so repulsive to me that I was truly ashamed to be an American. Sure, they had witnessed firsthand the same idiocies and arrogance of an incompetent administration that I had witnessed. They had watched as an all-time high surplus was ransacked into an all-time high deficit, as jobs and the economy declined, as wildlife was plundered, rights were trampled, and the human cost of a deceitful war rose higher with each passing day. And yet, after all of that, they still voted for more of the same. Even reading this now in black and white, it's impossible for me to fathom.
This, too, goes far beyond a simple “how can they be so stupid?” for it speaks to the very heart and soul of this country and the precarious, shadowy path it has now chosen to trod. It speaks to a new era where Americans have made a conscious decision to thumb their noses at the truth, the environment and their fellow citizens of the world. And it speaks to the leaders they have elected, leaders who are now willing to extend a hand of goodwill, but only to those who “share their goals.”
Wow, I sure miss those beams of light.
I want my picture book back.
Los Angeles, CA
November 2004
Bill Jacobs
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