On Being Patriotic

Dec 3, 2025

anonymous #36.3

At this point in my life, I’ve heard hundreds, if not thousands, of renditions of the national anthem. Being in marching band since eighth grade, I’ve *played *the national anthem hundreds of times. In rehearsal. At performances. I’ve played it as a solo and with a band of hundreds. I’ve played different arrangements. Over and over and over.

It doesn’t sound real anymore. It’s a collection of notes. It’s exasperated, shouted reminders to smooth out some notes and shorten others, attacks and releases and phrasing and breath. Dynamics. Shaping. Trills. Artistry piled on until the song underneath is lost.

All in the name of a more perfect sound. A better representation of our patriotism. After all, my high school band director said every year, everybody knows this song. It’s an honor to play it. They know when you mess it up. And you will *not *embarrass yourselves by messing it up.

So we practiced until we had it perfect. Every single year. And every single year, we got the same lecture- particularly the trumpets who had the opening notes. The new freshmen practically shivering under his glare, the upperclassmen nodding along to the speech. It has to be perfect. It has to sound American.

Now, after so many times repeating it, like saying the same word over and over again, it doesn’t sound like America. It sounds like nonsense.

There’s so much nonsense coming out of America these days. Might as well add our anthem to it as well.

The big flag that the OMB uses for pregame takes a morning of rehearsal, every single band camp. It’s a lot of logistics, getting it out of its bin, down the east tunnel, and out onto the field and opened up to the sunshine. There’s at least fifty, probably closer to seventy people involved in the band who carry it out. Everyone is sweaty and tired, already thinking about lunch as we receive instructions on how to perform our part properly. Unfurling the flag a half-dozen times as the rest of the musicians play that one phrase in America the Beautiful over and over again.

It strains your shoulders and wrists to pull it taut so it won’t touch the ground. You’re bent backwards for minutes straight just to keep it up. It weighs so much. It billows in the slightest bit of wind, taking every last person around the perimeter to get it under control. It’s a task that should be an honor, holding the national colors, and yet all I can think about is how much I can’t wait to let it fall out of my hands, shake out my wrists and roll my shoulders. America hurts. Wish I could let it go.

And it touches the ground. Damn near every time it’s brought out, it touches the ground. We do our best to hide it, but that bit in the middle as we’re running it out, in the moments between the top and bottom separating and the sides taking up their positions, despite the yearly lecture on keeping it up, it hits the ground.

How poignant. America. A nation supposed to be a shining beacon, and we can’t keep it from hitting the ground. We can hide it, though.

We’ll pretend everything is fine and play our nonsense until we can’t. Until the history books mock us for our fervent patriotism, not knowing that really, it’s…just another part of the job.

The funny thing is, after all the drilling of the anthem and all the carrying of the flag, I still hate America. What should have been indoctrination instead crossed the line into camp. I will do my part and hold the flag and play the notes and stand stoically for the TV cameras and as soon as I’m done I’ll mock the crowd for believing it.

There’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t drop the flag or play a hundred wrong notes in the anthem. Before patriotism, I am a performer, and the show must go on, even if I hate it. People who play bigots in movies must still say their lines, only hoping that the story will prove they’re the bad guy.

Doesn’t mean many of us out there *believe *it, though. And if all of us had the freedom to do what we really wanted out there… the flag would be on the ground.

And none of us could hide it.