The Things That Make Us American

Here’s where I see America:

I see it on a flag-shaped soccer field, where two dozen kids chase each other like puppies, kicking everything but the ball.

I see it in a home-run swing. Hear it in a Vin Scully serenade.

I see it in the way a mother fixes soup on a September day and in the way those New York rescue workers chant “USA” louder than any Olympian ever did.

I see America in baseball pennant races.

God bless the Cubs (as if he has the time anymore).

Here’s where I see America:

I see it in simple pleasures.

I see it in difficult and mind-bending tasks.

I see it in a cautious new driver, just turned 16, creeping along at 15 mph in a 45 zone.

I see it in a crazed carpool mom, just turned 40, going 45 in a 15 mph zone.

I see it in a classroom packed with parents on back-to-school night.

I hear it in the way Ray Charles sings “America the Beautiful,” maybe the most gorgeous song ever, the one that makes you feel chills from your feet to your forehead.

Ray Charles’ voice: God shed his grace on thee.

Here’s where I see America:

I see it in all of the flags.

I see it in the flag draped across City Hall and in the giant flag at the end of the cul-de-sac.

I see it in the flag draped proudly by the Korean American family across the street.

I see it in those little antenna flags and in the flags flapping from car windows.

I see it in my buddy Irv’s lapel pin and in the red, white and blue of the kids’ clothing as they walk to school on the day of remembrance.

I see it in a yearbook smile.

Here’s where I see America:

I see America in all of the pints of blood donated and the candlelight vigils and in the people who plead patience and tolerance, when it would maybe feel better to lash out and do otherwise.

I see it in the Norman Rockwell paintings on the wall of the local doughnut shop run by Chinese Americans.

I see it in the way the pews fill on a Sunday morning in September, as if it were Christmas.

I see it in a Halloween jack-o’-lantern and a Thanksgiving feast and the way kids run barefoot through the warm sand on the Fourth of July.

I see it in a boat-dock splinter. In a garden party bee sting.

I see America at a Friday night football game, in the way some kid bangs his bass drum and the way the trombone players avoid hitting the row of flutes.

I see it in the way the waitress freshens the coffee without asking, then pauses to discuss the weekend weather.

I see it in an apple.

Here’s where I see America:

I see it in a well-packed school lunch. In a 20-pound backpack. In a kid’s new shoes, bought on hard work and credit.

I see it in the teary eyes of the older gentleman at the gym, who tells me he grieves for his country and doesn’t know what to do about it except talk to strangers, to share the way he hurts.

I feel it in a handshake. I taste it in a kiss.

I see it in a Saturday yard sale, a pep-squad car wash, in a high school musical, corny as a county fair.

I see it in 20 inches of fresh powder on a California mountaintop. In a surfboard. In a canoe.

I see it in a pancake breakfast. Margarita Mondays. A burger for a buck.

I see America in a college girl’s phone call. And in an e-mail that says she’s doing all right but needs more money for books. Books?

Right. Books.

Here’s where I see America:

I see it in the glassy surface of Tahoe and the hook-splash of a walleye on a Minnesota lake.

I see it in the dust of a small Iowa farm that survives only on perseverance, courage and a little luck, the triple play of American life.

I see it in the excitement of a college football game, a double reverse, a broken play that goes all the way.

I see America in a pickup game of basketball. In a Steinbeck reading. In maple trees touched by fall.

I see it in the Miss America Pageant and the USC song girls and in the Statue of Liberty, our most underrated sex symbol.

I see it in a John Wayne movie. An Arlo Guthrie song. In elections every four years, no matter what.

I see America in the boy who grabs the morning paper, the edition with the headlines big as a brute’s fist, and slides it under his bed to remember forever.

I hear it in the voice of the little girl, who says we shouldn’t retaliate because that would just make things worse.

And I hear it in my own heart, where I believe we may have no other choice.

America. You probably have your version. I have mine.

Usually, our great nation can be measured by all the things we both take for granted.

Not anymore.

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Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is [email protected].