A New National Anthem | #73
A New National Anthem
The truth is, I’ve never cared for the National
Anthem. If you think about it, it’s not a good
song. Too high for most of us with “the rockets
red glare” and then there are the bombs.
(Always, always, there is war and bombs.)
Once, I sang it at homecoming and threw
even the tenacious high school band off key.
But the song didn’t mean anything, just a call
to the field, something to get through before
the pummeling of youth. And what of the stanzas
we never sing, the third that mentions “no refuge
could save the hireling and the slave”? Perhaps,
the truth is, every song of this country
has an unsung third stanza, something brutal
snaking underneath us as we blindly sing
the high notes with a beer sloshing in the stands
hoping our team wins. Don’t get me wrong, I do
like the flag, how it undulates in the wind
like water, elemental, and best when it’s humbled,
brought to its knees, clung to by someone who
has lost everything, when it’s not a weapon,
when it flickers, when it folds up so perfectly
you can keep it until it’s needed, until you can
love it again, until the song in your mouth feels
like sustenance, a song where the notes are sung
by even the ageless woods, the short-grass plains,
the Red River Gorge, the fistful of land left
unpoisoned, that song that’s our birthright,
that’s sung in silence when it’s too hard to go on,
that sounds like someone’s rough fingers weaving
into another’s, that sounds like a match being lit
in an endless cave, the song that says my bones
are your bones, and your bones are my bones,
and isn’t that enough?
-Ada Limón, from The Carrying, 2018I sometimes struggle with big blocks of text in poems like this, so I recommend listening to this poem in addition to reading it. Limón’s voice is warm and comforting and curious, as if she’s thinking all of this for the first time.
This poem could be prose, but it’s not. Why? What is different about giving the parenthetical “(Always, always, there is war and bombs)” its own line? Notice how many break before a prepositional clause — that could be the end of the sentence, but the next line rushes in with a “like” or a “that” to tell us more, to clarify, to paint the picture.
I always find Limón’s unique perspectives on the world exceptionally beautiful, but here are a few lines that stand out:
“the truth is, every song of this country / has an unsung third stanza, something brutal / snaking underneath us as we blindly sing the high notes / with a beer sloshing in the stands / hoping our team wins. “
“when it’s not a weapon, / when it flickers”
“until the song in your mouth feels / like sustenance”
and of course, “my bones / are your bones, and your bones are my bones, / and isn’t that enough?”
I struggled to choose the right poem for today. I paged through of my backlog of poems on grief, anger, longing, hope, but nothing felt right. It wasn’t until I searched “poems” in my google drive that I discovered this in a compilation I put together for a Fourth of July party several years ago.
I have a confession: I love the Fourth of July. In most of my circles, loving the Fourth of July is not chic. I don’t disagree with the reasons behind this — our country’s founding is inextricable from genocide and slavery; we have and continue to commit and support atrocities at home and abroad; we invest in the military and in corporations at the expense of our citizens’ well-being. Quite often, the United States of America (™) preaches a gospel that I disagree with to my very core.
When I was growing up, my mom prominently flew an American flag from our balcony every July. My grandpa often expressed concern over this: “People will think you’re a Republican!” But she would always insist that Republicans didn’t own patriotism. The flag belonged to all of us who lived here.
I’m sure it’s easier to make that claim when, like my mom and me, you are white, cis, well-off, and well-educated. My immigrant forebears were once excluded as “non-American,” but they dissolved into the white part of the American melting pot long before my birth. It’s easier to appreciate this country’s vibrance, opportunity, and natural beauty when (for the most part) it isn’t out to get me.
Still, I was ten when I first felt the urge to distance myself from the US and its actions. I’ve done so many times since, and increasingly in the last decade. Rationally, this should be one of those moments. I’m scared about what the next four years will bring for my loved ones, for people in the U.S., and for humans across the world. I’m heartbroken about the suffering that seems inevitable given all this man has promised to do, and I’m baffled that anyone could have seen him as the “better” choice. But where in 2016 I was primarily angry and affronted, I find myself now holding a surprising amount of tenderness for all the people of this country.
There are thousands of think pieces about why people voted the way they did on Tuesday, and I’ll admit I (intentionally) haven’t read most of them. I don’t have political diagnoses or theories, but I do know that a country is made up of its people, and people tend to crave the same things: belonging, security, and purpose in their lives. Blame and hate are secondary emotions that bloom from the fear of losing these things and from the pain of having lost them. So many people in this country are afraid and hurting, both those who are grieving this election and those who got the outcome they voted for.
It doesn’t make sense to me to keep insisting that Trump voters are inscrutable, hateful, fundamentally different from me. The thought of four years of belligerence towards half my country’s citizens exhausts me.
You might argue that the country will be belligerent towards me, my loved ones, and principles I hold dear regardless, and you’re probably right. I’m not saying I won’t fight for what matters. But I want to think about it differently. Whether we chose this country or our ancestors did or we were brought here by force, we are all here now. My bones are your bones and your bones are my bones. Whatever comes next, I’d like to start there.
Like a match being lit in an endless cave,
Jess
p.s. For more soul-restoring content, check out Limón’s beautiful interview on the On Being podcast.
p.p.s. Happy birthday to my strong, inspiring, amazing mama! Thank you for teaching me it’s important to love imperfect things. I love you!