By the South Texas lead.
It is ironic that Flag Day takes place during the month which is called “Pride Month.”
I was raised in a household where we very proudly flew the stars and stripes on our porch year-round. My father even went the extra mile to observe flag code by ensuring the flag was well lit at night, and growing up, it became my responsibility to ensure that the flag was taken down and brought inside in the event of rough weather and then returned to its pole when the weather cleared. Our pride in that flag was real.
At present, we find ourselves mired in a grotesque culture that openly celebrates every form of disgusting, inhuman degeneracy and parades it around in the faces of innocent children. The country that we were once so proud of is unreconizeable; we find ourselves surrounded by strange faces speaking strange languages, and we are told that the legacy of our past heroes is one of oppression for which future generations must atone. The wars in which some of our most devoted and faithful patriots have dutifully marched under Old Glory have ended most ingloriously—the noble causes revealed to be outright lies, the outcome only increased misery and shame. It is tempting to look at the Star Spangled Banner, especially in this month where it seems to represent nothing more than the rainbow flags we see in every town, and feel not pride but disdain and contempt.
I am reminded, however, of a particular experience that I had near the end of my time in the Marine Corps, when, for three months, I was assigned a collateral duty as a staff non-commissioned officer in charge of a Marine Corps funeral detail.
Out at the cold cemetery, the people would crane their necks to watch as the pallbearers slowly saluted the casket, solemnly slid it out from the back of the hearse, and began the slow, silent march to the grave site. After the casket is set, I will take my post at the head, and the pastor or priest will say a short benediction before I nod at the other flag folder to begin. We grasped the corners of the flag from the coffin and lifted it up and wide open, fluttering in the cool breeze.
"With a magazine of blank ammunition, load. Rea-DY," grunted the sword NCO. "Aim... FIRE!"
I could see the family members jump in their seats when the first volley of the 21-gun salute shattered the serenity of the quiet cemetery. Again and again, they would shudder as the blasts echoed through the hills, and the women would begin to sob. We would tilt the flag towards the family as the bugler sounded taps, and gusts of wind would bring the flag to life in our hands. My arms would shake as I clenched the corners of the billowing flag in my fists until the last note.
With a nod, we started to fold. It was dead silent now. It's a long, slow process—folding the flag. It's difficult to make white cotton gloves, and often the folds don't turn out just right. But we would stop, unfold it again, and fix it right then and there, because I'd be damned if this flag was not perfect before we were done. After I had inspected it, the sword NCO would approach and insert three pieces of brass into the folds, inspect our work again, nod when it was perfect, and salute.
I would then kneel before the next of kin, usually a widow, a daughter, or a mother, and present the flag, saying, “On behalf of the United States Marine Corps and a grateful nation, please accept this flag in honor of your loved ones faithful service.” She would stare down through her tears at the flag in my hands, and I could see her reflecting on a life of service. Service to his family and to this flag. It was just a simple piece of cloth folded into a triangle, but it meant so much to him! She must have remembered how much he loved that flag. And on that day, when he marched beneath those colors for the last time, the flag no longer represented only the things he loved and stood for—it represented him!
My mother keeps the flag that was given to her in honor of my grandfather, who fought in Vietnam, in a place of highest honor in the house.
That flag does not represent “an idea"; it represents a person. The American flag represents people. Specific people. The American flag is the flag of a nation. Not in an abstract or theoretical way, but in a very real way, the flag represents real people who lived, loved, worked, suffered, sacrificed, died, and made this land our home. Each and every one of us has a tangible connection to these people who were, are, and always will be Americans. And we are America. Not an “experiment in democracy"—a” nation. A people with a heritage and a destiny.
And though our country is occupied by parasites and traitors who seek to wipe away our heritage and deprive us of our destiny, and our flag has been stolen and appropriated to become a symbol of global degeneracy and wickedness, this nation is something for which we can always feel a sense of real pride.
We are the people of the Frontier of the World. We are the descendants of a great tradition of conquering heroes and adventurers, driven by a primal urge to march into the sunset and inspired by an unshakable faith in God to cross the sea, face the savage wilderness, and make this great land our home.
Some of you may remember being taught in school the meaning of the individual colors on the flag: blue for vigilance and justice, white for purity and innocence, and red for valor and sacrifice. Specifically, the color red symbolizes blood. The blood of those patriots and heroes, which has been shed from the beginning of our history, has given life to this nation. That same blood still flows in our veins. And we will not hesitate to sacrifice that blood ourselves in the struggle for the survival and destiny of our people, and thereby unite ourselves completely to the legacy that is contained in those stripes.
In the words of the great motto, “Me Ne Frego Di Morire per la Santa liberta.” I don’t give a damn if I have to die for sacred freedom. Let us live to be worthy of the courage and sacrifices of our forbears.
Hail Victory. Christ is King.