Category: Why I Love America

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Arts & Letters Why I Love America

In Passing Her Love of Country to Granddaughter, Reader Reflects on the Meaning of Patriotism

(Biba Kayewich for American Essence)

I’m not sure why I react as I do, but when I hear our national anthem and see our Stars and Stripes raised high, I tear up. I always have; I always will.

I think of moments in the past when our flag has particularly moved me. 9/11—the first responders raising a tattered flag over the smoking remains of the Twin Towers, a flag symbolizing “United We Stand.” Or the photo of a sweet little girl poised atop her daddy’s shoulders, looking to the heavens, clutching a tiny flag in her hand. I have seen too many flag-draped caskets cradling the remains of our brave soldiers and first responders who gave their precious lives for our country. And the entire landscape at Arlington National Cemetery is draped with the red, white, and blue of our heroes who fought to protect the sovereignty of our land.

But I add to these the happy times and happy tears.

As retirees in 2000, my husband and I were hired as staff members on a Semester at Sea study-abroad program. We joined 700 college students on a four-month voyage around the world on a beautiful ship, the MV Explorer. As we set sail out of Coal Harbor in Vancouver, families and friends waved our beautiful flag from the shore in Stanley Park, bidding us farewell. I thought four months would pass before we would see Old Glory again. But I was mistaken. American flags greeted us in our first port, Kobe, Japan, as Japanese beauties waved them in welcome. And, reminding us of our influence abroad, our flags graced the entrances of the U.S. embassies we passed by during our sojourn in 13 countries. Then, months later in Havana, Cuba, our final port, I was once again moved to patriotic tears.

Thinking that a sporting event might encourage camaraderie and serve as an icebreaker between our students and theirs, Semester at Sea staff and the athletic director at the University of Havana organized a basketball game pitting our students against the university’s varsity team. When we entered the gymnasium, we found our opponent’s team in full uniform, standing in solemn attention. Suddenly, a Cuban student marched in, proudly waving our Stars and Stripes, our national anthem resounding throughout the stadium. Everyone, Cubans and Americans together, stood in quiet respect. Here I am, in the heart of communist Cuba, moved to tears by our flag and the glorious music of our country.

Years pass, and we have built a beach house adjacent to a naval base in California. Every morning at 8 a.m., our national anthem resounds over their loudspeakers. Our little granddaughter Mia visits often, and we open the patio door and call her over. Since my husband, her “Papa,” is the quintessential flag waver, we tell her that “Papa’s song” is playing, and “when we hear it, we put our hands on our hearts, we stand still, and we listen.” She follows our lead, placing her hand on her chest, standing at attention. When the anthem ends, we all clap and cheer.

Years later, on a shopping trip to our local Costco Warehouse, Mia is seated in the cart, holding the bouquet of white roses we’ve selected. We pass a display of speakers emitting a patriotic tune. It’s not our national anthem, but for her, it’s close enough. She calls out to me. “Nai Nai! Stop!” Transferring the roses to her left hand, she places her right hand on her chest. “Nai Nai! Hand!” she exclaims. “Papa’s song!” So there we stand, in the middle of a crowded aisle, hands over our hearts, as our little girl attempts to sing along to a random song with the few words of her “Papa’s song” that she remembers.

No—it wasn’t quite the same as stealth bombers flying over the Super Bowl following the playing of our national anthem. It wasn’t quite the moment in the gymnasium in Havana, Cuba. It wasn’t quite the moment of seeing Old Glory hoisted up the flagpole and hearing our country’s anthem blasting on the MV Explorer as we pulled into the Port of New Orleans that December of 2000 after our four-month voyage around the world. But it was a precious moment—one not without a tear.

Now that she’s older, my sweet Mia is beginning to understand the real meaning of “Papa’s song.” As American author Henry James said, “I think patriotism is like charity. It begins at home.” I’m confident that throughout her life, whenever Mia sings “the land of the free and the home of the brave,” she will reflect on when, how, and why she learned to stand at attention to honor our flag and our country.

From January Issue, Volume IV

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Features Why I Love America

An Immigrant’s Success Story: From Dirt Floors to Upscale Salon

Dino Laudati, master haircolorist, pictured at his salon’s rooftop in West Palm Beach, Fla. (Pia Norris)

I am an immigrant. I grew up in poverty in post-World War II Italy. We had dirt floors and no running water or bathroom in the house, and we never knew where the next meal was coming from or what it would be. From the time I was 7, I worked at a gas station. I thank God that America gave me a chance to escape that life.

I came to America with my family when I was 16. I was upset about leaving my friends behind, but I had no choice. We lived in Springfield, Massachusetts: not a place I would have chosen, but much better than the place I left behind.

During my first month in Springfield, we experienced one of the worst snowstorms I had ever seen. While walking down the street on that Sunday, I noticed all the people—young and old—shoveling their driveways. Since I didn’t yet speak any English, I asked my friend to talk to the older people and find out if they would like us to shovel the snow for a couple of dollars. In 1968, $2 seemed like a lot of money. By the end of the day, when we stopped and counted all the money we had stuffed into various pockets, we discovered that we had made almost $30 apiece.

It was on that snowy Sunday that I became an American. In one short day in America, I made more than double what my father earned in a month doing construction seven days a week, 10 hours a day, in Italy.

Since that day, I did many jobs, both part-time and full-time, day or night. My father expected me to work a 40-hour-a-week job to help support the family: That meant I had to go to school during the day and work an eight-hour shift at night, usually from 10 o’clock to 6 o’clock in the morning. I worked in a match factory, a rubber boot factory, as a dishwasher, a janitor, and a hospital orderly. I did construction, framed paintings in an art gallery, and even sold vacuum cleaners from door to door. I was never out of work because America always offered an opportunity. Many times it was not what I wanted, but I did it anyway until something better came along.

Fortunately, I went to a trade high school where I took classes in carpentry, plumbing, electrical, and auto mechanics. When my sister took cosmetology, I thought it would be interesting to join her—especially since I would be the only man surrounded by pretty girls. Even though my sister withdrew, I enjoyed it and the instructor took a special interest in me: I seemed to possess a natural talent. When I graduated, I received the cosmetology award and an award in English. I knew that I could embrace not just a job, but a career that offered unlimited opportunities. With a pair of scissors and a comb, I could go anywhere!

With five years’ experience as a hairstylist, I married my wife, and the next morning, we drove to Palm Beach, Florida. Two years later, at the age of 26, we opened our own salon. A few years later, we had the hottest and busiest salon in Palm Beach. We also had two sons.

I took to my knees and thanked God for my wife, my sons, and for the success of our salon. But most of all, I thanked him for America. These are some of the words I prayed:

Lord, thank you for giving me America as an adoptive mother, and please bless my new mother. She took me in her arms, accepted me as her own, and offered me the same dreams, the same freedom, and the same opportunities she offered her native sons, with no limits, no questions, and no discrimination. God bless America!