“Nationalism is an infantile disease. It is the measles of mankind.”
Albert Einstein, scientist (1879-1955)
There was this thing, between the last blog and today’s – this national holiday. It was a big one – arguably the most important, as far as national holidays go.
And now we’re in that post July 4 and pre-  official political campaign season, wherein possibly or marginally sane and erstwhile sensibly dressed men and women
have to start wearing flag lapel pins and touting their I love ‘Murica credentials.
…which inevitably lead to accusations that certain sentiments or political positions are evidence of a lack of robust pride in being a USA citizen. I might as well warn the rabid Red Staters up front: do not ask moiself if I’m “proud to be an American,”  because you probably won’t like my answer.
No, thank you. I am not proud to be an American.
At least, not as I understand the concept.
The various dictionary definitions of proud are linked to achievement and action, as indicated by the usage examples given for the word:
They are the proud parents of a hero.
I was proud that I never gave in.
She’s the proud owner of a new car.
Her proudest accomplishment was to finish school.
I am not proud to have brown eyes, to be of Irish-Norwegian-Welsh-French-Cherokee heritage, nor to be a woman. These and other, more or less noteworthy attributes are mine, but neither by choice nor achievement. Moiself, I only take pride in intention, behavior and accomplishment, not in something resulting from the roll of the DNA dice nor, in the case of my being an American, the luck of geography when it came to my place of birth. 
I feel fortunate to be a citizen of the USA, but not proud.  Perhaps if I had been born in another country and had sacrificed and struggled and waded through red tape and green card bureaucracy to become a naturalized US citizen, that’d be something of which I was proud. I am an American because I was born on US soil to US citizens and, according to the US Constitution’s 14th Amendment , that’s all it took. My own worthiness, desire, skills and/or initiative had nothing to do with it.
However, a recent Freedom From Religion Foundation blog post gave me something else to consider on this issue. In Proud to Be An American, the July 3 FRFF blog, Staff Attorney and Constitutional Consultant Andrew Seidel writes that he takes pride in being an American because
…this nation, despite its faults and missteps, was the first to separate state and church. That “wall of separation” as Jefferson put it, is an American original.
This is not to say the idea is necessarily an American invention, but it was first implemented in the “American Experiment,” as Madison put it. Until then, no other nation had sought to so full protect the ability of its citizens to think freely. No people had sought to divorce the terrible power religion holds over the supposed afterlife, from the power government has in everyday life. Until then, the freedom of thought and even the freedom of religion, could never have truly existed.
Now, that’s something to be proud of – the Americans of the past who fought hard to establish a religion-free constitution, and those who remain vigilant in upholding our resultant freedoms.
I’ll drink a toast to that.
But I still won’t wear a fucking lapel pin.
* * *
Department of Blame the Parents? The weather? The Internet? Donald Trump?
Daughter Belle is working as an Oregon Zoo Day Camp Camp Counselor. The camps run all summer long, one week for each session. This week she is working with the “Giraffe” camp, which is for children entering the second grade.
Every evening at the dinner table MH and I ask about her day. The first three weeks, when she was working with kids of kindergarten age, she regaled us with stories about how children that age should NOT be entrusted with either water  or shoelaces, how the boys “form little kingdoms and hierarchies” that quickly dissolve; i.e., they are friends and allies one minute and crying to the counselors five minutes later (“He called me a big baby – waaaah!”), and just how much hovering certain helicopter parents are capable of. Belle is starting to develop opinions, to put it mildly, as to children’s behavior and maturity levels and as to what and/or who is responsible for the miscreants little darlings’ manners.
Tuesday eve, when I picked her up at the light rail station and asked about camp, her expression curdled. It seems that one of the girls in her group (“One of the blondes; I forget which one – all the blonde ones look kind of the same, you know?”), apropos of nothing, approached her with this stimulating conversation opener.
Blonde Girl: “You should do something with your hair.”
Blonde Girl: “It looks kind of tired.”
* * *
Last weekend as MH and I were returning home from a walk, we passed a house in our neighborhood which is occupied by “unschoolers.” Or so we assume from the bumper stickers the house’s vehicles have sported over the years that promote unschooling. 
I got to wondering to MH: If parents practice unschooling for their children, what about the adults? Does that philosophy – of self-direction and pursuing only that which interests you at the moment – carry on into other aspects of their lives? Is their house un-kept and un-maintained?  Do they un-cook their meals? Are they employed, and if so, do they practice un-working?
From an unschooling website info section, “What is unschooling?” (emphases mine)
There are as many approaches to unschooling as there are people, by design. A child is supported to read when ready and interested, not on another’s timetable, for example. He can and will be encouraged to pursue a wide range of interests, based on his interests, such as free play, inventing, experimenting scientifically, video gaming, role modeling through friendship, spiritual development through inquiry of self and others, athletics, learning to trust himself and others…..
An unschooled adult, or parent, is one who is loving the self designed life they have created for themselves. (sic )  They may be entrepreneurs, travelers, create large incomes or small, simple ones. They know what foods, friendships, work, play and spiritual connections allow them to feel alive and challenged and satisfied.
MH said he doubted his own project managers and co-workers would look kindly upon him if he took up un-working,
“You know, I’m not interested in working on our cache memory project this week – it’s just not on my timetable right now…”
and that if he did so, he might soon find himself practicing un-employment.
* * *
For the past few weeks it’s been too damn hot for me to drag my loves-the-cooler-Pacific-northwest-climate butt out and shoot some arrows. I’ve missed going to a somewhat local, free, outdoor archery range, and while I’ve discovered a relatively nearby indoor fee range, I haven’t been motivated to make the time (or pay the fee) to go there. While taking practice in my self-designed, “indoor” (read: garage) range this week,  I reflected upon a common experience several of my archery class-mates (the female ones) shared with me: it seems that every other person who finds out you have taken up archery asks if or assumes that you’ve done so because you liked The Hunger Games books and/or movies and want to emulate the hero, Katniss Everdeen.
While I admire many things about The Hunger Games franchise, I’d been interested in archery a long time before Ms. Everdeen strapped on her recurve bow. Any delusions of Katniss-osity were the furthest thing from my mind when I took the intro to archery class.
Part of the fun the class instructor had with us archery neophytes was to ask us to choose names (or “avatars”) that had something to do with our living or working situation, where we were born, or other personal attributes or interests. He’d then divide us into pairs or groups according to those names and have us compete in various aiming and scoring games. I came home after one of those sessions, wherein a fellow (male) student had chosen the name Katniss, and announced to MH that I had found my archery avatar.
Call me Catpiss.
MH was less than impressed, and remained so, even after I told him that although my interest in archery was strictly for the zen of aiming and concentration, if I ever did take up bow hunting, he could provide the duck calls. 
* * *
May your hair be manage-ably energetic, may your aim be worthy of your avatar,
and may the hijinks ensue.
Thanks for stopping by. Au Vendredi!
 Ah, how I wish indeed it were “pre,” but the presidential campaigning season gets longer and longer and…
 Like they are soooooo interested in my opinion.
 Which, as it happened, was a doctor’s locker room (or, “a doctor’s broom closet,” as my late great father used to tease my mother), but it was a locker room on American soil, dadgummit.
 And sometimes embarrassed, depending on policies supported by my fellow citizens.
 Which, according to Belle, they spill on themselves at every opportunity and then shriek as if someone’s tossed acid on their clothing.
 John Holt, the “father” of unschooling, believed that children didn’t need to be forced to learn in a structured environment but would learn naturally if allowed freedom to follow their own interests.
 From what I’ve seen of their front yard upkeep…well…insert (un)snarky comment.
 I can’t help but gloat over the unschooled and uncorrected redundancy and punctuation mistakes.
 Designed for safety – the neighbors (and the water heater) needn’t worry.
 A subtly placed fart joke – thank you, ladies and germs. Although, my ignorance of hunting is probably showing. I imagine bow hunters go for larger targets (deer, boar) than ducks.