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You Are Listening To She's A Grand Old Flag

(Written by Tom Adkins 07/01/98)

To Those Who Want To Burn the Flag

Just Ask Permission

Does the first Amendment give us the right to desecrate the American flag? Or is the flag a sacred symbol of our nation, deserving protection by law? Tough call?


For those who want to light Old Glory on fire, stomp all over it, or spit on it to make some sort of "statement," I say let them do it. But under one condition: they MUST get permission from three sponsors. First, you need permission of a war veteran. Perhaps a Marine who fought at Iwo Jima?

The American flag was raised over Mount Surabachi upon the bodies of thousands of dead buddies. Each night spent on Iwo meant half of everyone you knew would be dead tomorrow, a coin flip away from a bloody end upon a patch of sand your mother couldn't find on a map.

Or maybe ask a Vietnam vet who spent years tortured in a small, filthy cell unfit for a dog.

Or a Korean War soldier who helped rescue half a nation from Communism,

or a Desert Storm warrior who repulsed a bloody dictator from raping and pillaging an innocent country.

That flag represented your mother and father, your sister and brother, your friends, neighbors, and everyone at home. I wonder what they would say if someone asked them permission to burn the American flag?

Next, you need a signature from an immigrant. Their brothers and sisters may still languish in their native land, often under tyranny, poverty and misery.

Or maybe they died on the way here, never to touch our shores. Some have seen friends and family get tortured and murdered by their own government for daring to do things we take for granted every day.

For those who risked everything simply for the chance to become an American ... what kind of feelings do they have for the flag when they Pledge Allegiance the first time?

Go to a naturalization ceremony and see for yourself, the tears of pride, the thanks, the love and respect of this nation, as they finally embrace the American flag as their own. Ask one of them if it would be OK to tear up the flag.

Last, you should get the signature of a mother. Not just any mother. You need a mother of someone who gave their life for America. It doesn't even have to be from a war. It could be a cop. Or a fireman. Maybe a Secret Service or NSA agent. Then again, it could be a common foot soldier as well.

When that son or daughter is laid to rest, their family is given one gift by the American people; an American flag. Go on. I dare you. Ask that mother to spit on her flag.

I wonder what the founding fathers thought of the American flag as they drafted the Declaration of Independence? They knew this act would drag young America into war with England, the greatest power on earth. They also knew failure meant more than just a disappointment. It meant a noose snugly stretched around their necks. But they needed a symbol, something to inspire the new nation. Something to represent the seriousness, the purpose and conviction that we held our new idea of individual freedom. Something worth living for. Something worth dying for. I wonder how they'd feel if someone asked them permission to toss their flag in a mud puddle?

Away from family, away from the precious shores of home, in the face of overwhelming odds and often in the face of death, the American flag inspires those who believe in the American dream, the American promise, the American vision... Americans who don't appreciate the flag don't appreciate this nation. And those who appreciate this nation appreciate the American flag. Those who fought, fought for that flag. Those who died, died for that flag.

And those who love America love that flag. And defend it.

So if you want to desecrate the American flag, before you spit on it or before you burn it ... I have a simple request. Just ask permission. Not from the Constitution. Not from some obscure law. Not from the politicians or the pundits.

Instead, ask those who defended our nation so that we may be free today. Ask those who struggled to reach our shores so that they may join us in the American dream. And ask those who clutch a flag in place of their sacrificed sons and daughters, given to this nation so that others may be free.

For we cannot ask permission from those who died wishing they could, just once ... or once again ... see, touch or kiss the flag that stands for our nation, the United States of America ... the greatest nation on earth.

By Ginny Ellis

"Good night, Dad," I watched my father,
As he climbed the stairs to go to bed.
"Good night, son," he softly answered,
With a vague salute to his white head.

I waved back from my big chair,
But Dad's wave was more salute,
He learned that sixty years ago,
As a World War II recruit.

The story goes, Dad was eighteen,
When World War II broke out,
About the age my son is now,
Too young to know what life's about.

I think I know how I would feel,
If they drafted my young son,
I suppose my grandfolks felt the same,
December Seventh, Nineteen Forty-one.

Dad seldom talked about the war,
But I remember, as a kid,
Once I asked him where he went,
And what it was he did.

He said, "Someday, son, I'll tell you,
When you're old enough to know,
About the battlefields I fought on,
And the bloodshed I saw flow."

And, you know, he's never told me,
I've asked time and time again,
I do know he has some medals,
In velvet cases in his den.

He used to get them out each year,
When he donned his uniform,
Parades would be held on holidays,
And Veterans would perform.

"That's my Dad," I'd point out,
As he marched proudly down the street,
His old unit reunited,
Those old guys never missed a beat.

But I wonder how he felt and thought,
When, still a boy, he went to war,
Was it just a new adventure?
Did he know what the fight was for?

He gave up his days at college,
Instead of pigskins, he had guns,
He heard no cheers for touchdowns,
Just, "Thank God, they're on the run."

When I was just a little kid,
Sometimes Dad screamed out at night,
Mom would say, "Go back to bed,
War dreams give your Dad a fright."

My Uncle Ned was killed in France,
That was Dad's youngest brother,
Dad wouldn't talk about him much,
What I knew I learned from Mother.

That was the war, they said,
To end all future wars,
How many have we had since then?
I wonder - any more?

My Dad's a gentle, quiet man,
Who won't discuss his fears or pains,
He fought for those unborn, as yet,
To insure this land remains.

There is no proper way to thank him,
That will have to come from God above,
But I can, at least, extend my hand,
In sincere respect and love.