Patriotism did not bring my grandfather to the Army recruiter’s office in 1956. Poverty did. A youth spent picking cotton and working odd jobs to help feed his family meant that he was a good way from graduating from high school as his 18th birthday approached.
He wanted a better life for himself and saw the Army as a way to make it happen.
He ended up staying three years beyond his initial three-year commitment. A sepia-toned photograph of him in his uniform still hangs proudly in his bedroom in Huntsville, Ala.
For my grandfather, military life was not without challenges. He recalls that he and other Black soldiers were consistently addressed as “boys” until he stood up to his commanding officer and told him that there were nothing but men in their unit. After this tense and even dangerous exchange, the officer addressed them respectfully – a small triumph that my grandfather never forgot.
I asked him why he continued on and he replied: “I guess I loved America more than I thought. I definitely liked it more than Russia.”
The military was the first integrated space he encountered. “We served together, marched together, slept in the same barracks and learned to respect each other,” he said.
During his six years of service, he finished high school and took extra classes. He returned to civilian life equipped with certifications to be a fireman, a merchant seaman and a bookkeeper. But in Alabama in the 1960s, no one would hire him to do any of those things. His first job was as a janitor.
My grandfather’s feelings about America are by turns fond and critical. Now, at age 86, he gets animated talking about how he never got to be a fireman.
His story embodies America’s great contradiction of being both a land of opportunity and one that hinders it at too many turns.
To my children, he is almost a mythic figure who climbed out of American history books. Despite all that he became – he opened his own music store in the 1990s — he cannot help but think he could have been even more.
He is my kids’ connection to a past they do not quite understand.
My children are not the only ones who do not know what to do with my grandfather’s story or his complex form of patriotism that holds tight to affection despite a deep sense of betrayal.
In this country we have come to see patriotism as a positive account of our history that treads lightly upon the nation’s sins. Fourth of July weekend is a time to wrap ourselves in the flag, grill some meat and run through a playlist of songs with lyrics lauding Americana. Talking about slavery, Jim Crow, economic exploitation and what happened to Black soldiers after they finished their service ruins the vibes.
It costs nothing to sing along to “God Bless America.” It requires much more to believe in a place that has failed you.
These emotions of love, pride and regret can reside in the same heart. It is the truest form of patriotism, a love that isn’t complacent, one that demands more than crumbs from justice’s table.
Esau McCaulley contributes Opinion columns to The New York Times.
