I’m a genuine Yankee Doodle Dandy. Like the Declaration of Independence, I was signed, sealed and delivered on the Fourth of July. And that makes me special. The entire country celebrates my birthday … the firecrackers, parades and barbecues are all in my honor. My parents told me that a long time ago and they never lied to me about anything.
I’m a red, white and blue baby born to a Polish immigrant father who enlisted in the U.S. Army, and a first-generation-and-proud-of-it mother. While other kids were learning nursery rhymes, I was memorizing patriotic verse:
“When freedom from her mountain height unfurled her standard to the air, she tore the azure robe of night, and set the stars of glory there…”
The poem, titled “The American Flag,” was written by Joseph Rodman Drake. You didn’t know that? I’ve always known. He was fourth on my mother’s list of favorite poets, right after Shakespeare and Longfellow.
At the age of 4, I’d get up on a chair and go through my repertoire, any place, any time. “Barbara Frietchie” by John Greenleaf Whittier was my specialty:
“Who touches a hair of yon gray head, dies like a dog. `March on!’ he said.”
I’d close my act with the Pledge of Allegiance and a stirring rendition of George M. Cohan’s “Grand Old Flag.” Then I’d act out “The Spirit of `76,” playing all three soldiers in that iconic work of art. Do you know who painted it? I do. I’ve always known. Archibald M. Willard was a household name in our Brooklyn apartment — along with Gilbert Stuart (George Washington’s favorite portraitist) and
Abbott and Costello (personal favorites of mine).
No comic strip posters for my room — no pictures of adorable pussycats and big-eyed kids. Two elaborately framed prints hung above my bed — “Old Ironsides” and “The Battle of the Monitor and the Merrimac.” I went off to dreamland each night with the sound of ships’ cannons blasting in my ears. To this day, I can sleep through anything.
By the time I was 10, I was a total Jingoist, my brain bursting with patriotic catch phrases … My country right or wrong … Don’t shoot ’til you see the whites of their eyes … Tippecanoe and Tyler too … Fire when ready Gridley … Hi-yo Silver… and Drink Ovaltine.
A July Fourth birthday can color your world like nothing else. On my first vacation as a young adult, I went to Plymouth, Mass. I stood next to the famous rock and sang:
“The breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rockbound coast… When a band of exiles moor’d their bark on the wild New England shore.” Lyrics by Felicia Dorothea Hemans.You didn’t know that? I’ve always known.
I came into the world a privileged child. Instead of a silver spoon, I held an American flag. I have a special link to my country and her symbols, especially Old Glory. I’m against desecrating the Stars and Stripes — and I’m not afraid to say so. I’ve been the lone defender of the flag at many a dinner party and in terms of constitutional amendments, it’s a difficult argument to win. Next time the subject comes up. I may go back to my old tricks, jump on a chair and sing:
“You’re a grand old flag. You’re a high-flying flag and forever in peace may you wave. You’re the emblem of the land I love, the home of the free and the brave…” (George M. Cohan, born July 3, 1878).
You didn’t know George M.’s real birth date? I did. I’ve always known.
Copyright 2015 Harriet Posnak Lesser
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Later, Baby by Harriet Posnak Lesser
Harriet Posnak Lesser is an award-winning journalist and social satirist whose articles have appeared in Long Island’s The South Shore Record and Nassau Herald, The New York Times, Cracked Magazine and others.