A roar broke the silent dissidence of head shaking in a coversation
   about America that I was in.
This voice railed against the country whose pride ran deep in her blood.
And with this voice, I agree.

But it did cause concern when she lumped the red, the white, the black
    and the blue in with the rusty freighters and rolling hills that I've come
        to love.
And the concern brought forth lessons from my own teaching.
Stories of 15th century frontiersman tramping around the great
    wilderness, with nought even a flag to their name, for they had
        rejected even that.
And memories of bloodline relatives that fought for the type of
     independence that the declaration wasn't offering.
An independence from having unknown men, armed with bibles,
    translated to the 19th power, telling them what's "right" and "just".

Now here we are today, lying in a grave that is no longer fresh whose
    tombstone reads: Democracy.
All because we have not yet understood that a flag is not a country,
    but rather a symbol of control.

And a country!
Now there lies something to love.

And it's easiest to love in the labored breathing of a mountain top view,
   or in a toast from the top of a water tower overlooking the Mississippi.
It can be seen in the wave of a conductor as he pulls out of the yard.
Or heard in the hissing of his wheels when you have the moment of
    realization that, "Yes! Those trains are actually going somewhere!"

It can be grasped in the handshake of a homeless man, who is not
   unlike your forefathers.
A cast away, tramping about the wilderness with not even a flag or
    a prayer, but two hands that are ready to work for change.