Let freedom ring!

Our cushy little lives.

We were clueless. Naive. Namby-pamby.

Ten years after Rodney King asked, “Can’t we all just get along?” we have an answer.

No. We cannot. Not with everyone. And sometimes, we shouldn’t even try.

My generation has rested on the notion that understanding brings peace. So long as we were tolerant, there would be no war, no hatred. The trees would grow tall, the breeze would smell pure and tolerance would reign sovereign.

We reared our children via publication, books written by people behind big mahogany desks, rejecting the real-life experiences of generations that preceded us. We, after all, had the luxury to spend years in peaceful self-examination, and believed ourselves elevated above the harsh realities that drove our grandparents to spank their children, to clear trees from mother earth needlessly, and to think a single piece of penny-candy worthy to fill the toe of a Christmas stocking.

But like a balloon full of too much hot air, our turgid theories were punctured by a stealth attack that hurled our own against us.

“Can’t we just all get along?” No. Not at all.

Evil exists, folks. There is no tolerance great enough to overcome it. There is right, and there is wrong – and like oil and water, the two cannot coexist.

We’ve burned the flag. We’ve espoused rights above responsibilities. What folly.

We watched the Persian Gulf War and cheered, certain that technology could answer every injustice. War was not messy, nor was it difficult. It was a bloodless coup with all the drama of a Spielberg film. Of course, the good guys would win. They always did. Our freedom reigned loudly, and the world heard.

Proud, dignified and strong, Bush One led us to victory. But as quickly as we went to war, we determined him unfit to lead us if he was unable to keep us all wealthy enough to purchase a property a day. Boardwalk, St. James Place and the B&O Railroad – whomever had the most trinkets and baubles won the game. The battle went not to the swift, but to him who could entertain us the best and inconvenience us the least.

It was the economy, Stupid.

And now, painfully, we know how wrong we were. I like my baubles as much as the next girl, but it’s time to realize that it’s not all about us. Freedom has nothing – nothing – to do with burning flags or aborting babies or going to a chi-chi mall to drop hundreds of dollars on attire a man named Tommy designed for the masses. That blood we see in movies may be catsup, as we all knew when we were children in our school cafeterias, but real blood – warm, red, American blood – was shed for a cause we so poorly understood. And now it is time to face reality.

Freedom is the breath of fresh air that blows to Bosnia when they are in turmoil. It’s what sent our friend Tom to Macedonia. It gives orphaned children from Korea homes because we have infertile parents who so desperately want to share their lives with a wee one. And it is to have as much money as we can possibly earn, and to be given tax breaks for sharing it with charity because, simply, we are a nation free to be kind, encouraged to give.

We thought freedom meant us doing what we wanted. Harshly, we’ve been taught that freedom means being free to do what we should. Unfettered, unbridled generosity and kindness come from within our very soul, and shine as a beacon to the world. The world isn’t jealous of us because we have more satellite channels than they have. They envy us because we get to decide which glorious roads we’d like to follow. We are allowed not only to dream, but to pursue those dreams with every drop of American blood coursing through our veins. We blaze trails. We are determined. And we are free.

And now my generation must come to grips with the notion that this freedom was bought with a very real, very bloody price. We realize those old men who challenged us to embrace the symbolism of the flag were brilliant and wise. We raise it high, and we weep at the ignorance we used to call bliss.

Freedom was a gift for which we did not pay. We possessed it, and it was ours, but the bill was paid by old men in white, girlish wigs. We didn’t appreciate it, didn’t nurture it, didn’t fathom its pricelessness. We were careless and used it for purposes never intended by the givers. We kidded ourselves into believing they would be proud of us for cleverly twisting and dissecting their every proclamation, turning their words into edicts offering us duty-free rights. So, distracted by our own selves, we fell asleep at the wheel for mere moments … and that was all it took.

Our freedom now calls us to attention. It begs our protection, and we, a stunned generation, realize that we harbor the DNA of men and women larger than life. We are capable and we are strong. The party is over, and the cleanup has begun. We aren’t as lazy as our parents feared we might be – in fact, as we feared ourselves. We are green, but we are capable. We know a leader when we see him, and are wise enough to follow. In our touchy-feely world, we believed teardrops equal to drops of blood in their might, but we now see how shallow we really were. With a newfound steely resolve, we have grown up in the course of a week. We dry our tears, we brush away the dust and prepare to do what we must.

In the numbness of our new reality, we remove our heads from the sand and finally, humbly ask, “What, oh dear, dear America, can we do for you?”

She does not hesitate, nor waver. Standing tall, 225 short years of backbone belie a body battered and bruised, yet stronger than civilizations as old as Moses. She speaks solidly, as she did when she was birthed: “Let these Facts be submitted to a candid world. With a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.”

“Let Freedom ring,” she implores.

And so we shall.

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Brenda Sikes is a wife, mother and former teacher who publishes a satirical look at all that’s noteworthy in society. You’ll find a fresh perspective on current events with a dash of small-town flavor. Nothing escapes honest evaluation. If it plays in Peoria, you’ll find it in Brenda’s Wit & Wisdom Newsletter.