Am I patriotic?
I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t.
We lived outside of Philadelphia in 1976 — which meant my entire fourth-grade year felt like one long, living history lesson. While other kids memorized dates from a textbook, we walked the ground where it happened. Independence Hall. Valley Forge. Streets where men argued over liberty and risked everything to defend it.
The Bicentennial wasn’t just a celebration. It was everywhere. Flags on porches. Red, white and blue bunting draped across small-town storefronts. A sense — even as a kid — that we were part of something older and bigger than ourselves.
One memory stands out more than all the field trips.
My brother had a snare drum he was experimenting with. My mom rigged a strap onto it and handed it to me. My sister Suzy picked up her recorder and learned a patriotic tune. My oldest sister, Holly, carried a flag. We dressed like figures from one of those old Revolutionary War paintings and marched up and down our street — Suzy piping, me rat-a-tat-tatting on that drum, Holly holding the flag high.
And people came out of their houses.
They clapped. They smiled. Some even stood a little straighter.
It wasn’t about us. It was about what we represented.
That’s where patriotism first took root for me.
Patriotism, to me, isn’t blind loyalty. It isn’t pretending the country is flawless. It isn’t shouting the loudest. It’s something steadier than that.
It’s gratitude.
It’s remembering that freedom isn’t normal in the sweep of human history. It’s understanding that self-government is fragile. It’s knowing that the experiment started in places like Independence Hall is still ongoing — and we are part of it.
Being patriotic means loving your country enough to celebrate its strengths and wrestle honestly with its weaknesses. It means putting the common good above personal comfort. It means standing for the Pledge of Allegiance even on days when the news cycle makes you tired. It means teaching students not just how this nation was formed, but why it matters that it was.
Every morning in my classroom, I face the flag. Hand over heart. Same words I’ve said thousands of times. Not because it’s required. Because it connects me — to that little boy with the drum, to the founders who signed their names in ink that could have cost them their lives, and to the students in front of me who will inherit whatever version of America we leave behind.
Yes, I’m patriotic.
Not because America is perfect.
But because it’s home.
Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
