I love America.  I love her history — good and bad — and everything she represents.  I walk down forgotten streets in old industrial towns, read lost words chiseled on hidden tombstones, and breathe deeply whenever I find myself standing on hallowed ground where Americans fought and died.  I treat old American books and maps like treasures, tracing the texture of their faded pages with my fingertips as a jeweler would rare stones.  The spirit of America affects me in an emotional way.  I have a vested interest in making sure she survives.

Not long ago, we would have called my condition good old-fashioned patriotism — a healthy affliction that tugs at the heart and soul like any other meaningful kind of love.  Now the FBI hunts down patriots as “extremists,” and I suppose the federal government won’t be happy until there is no one left to love this country we call home.  In defiance, I will love her anyway.

Although I come from a long line of veterans and witnesses to America’s glorious past, my ancestors did not fasten this patriotic love inside my heart.  My mother did.  From as long as I can remember, she told stories of the American Revolution, life on the frontier, the Civil War, and so much more.  She would choke up as she recounted the hardships at Valley Forge, the moments when George Washington almost lost everything, and the miraculous triumphs that brought the cause of liberty back to life.  We visited battlefields, and she would describe the morning fog and smoke as it had been when so many gave their lives so that we could enjoy what they could not.  She spoke of Thomas Jefferson, John Adams, and Benjamin Franklin in such personal terms that you could see them vividly in your mind.  “Think of how much the Founding Fathers risked,” she would say.  “Imagine how terrifying Gettysburg was,” she would insist.  “Think about all the people who sacrificed everything so that we could be here today,” she would remind us regularly.  Her love of American history created in me a love for America, too.  

For decades, Marxist historians have condemned America’s past as intolerably “patriarchal,” and feminist academics have insisted on rewriting America’s story as part of “HER-story.”  My mother has never played those silly games.  She is a strong woman who doesn’t need to recreate America’s past in her own image in order to make it meaningful.  More to the point, she is a courageous and patriotic American who finds as much of a connection to Washington, Jefferson, and Madison as anyone could.  She can tell you all about Martha Washington, Abigail Adams, and Mary Todd Lincoln, but her love of America is not segregated by sex.  America’s history is her history and a remarkable story that we have all inherited.

I see all these kids protesting against America today, and I think, “Dang, their mothers never taught them why they should cherish this country.”  I remember thinking something similar when Barack Obama went on his global apology tour as president and frequently suggested that there was nothing “exceptional” about the nation he represented.  “How could you rise to the highest office in the land,” I used to wonder, “and not be entranced by America’s significant contributions to human history?”  In a world long dominated by monarchs, emperors, militaries, and aristocracies, America stands alone as a country founded on the principles that human liberty is precious and that human government is corrosive.  Only in America have people fought and died not only to be free, but also to be the perpetual stewards of their own freedom.  Our free speech, our religious freedom, our right to defend our lives and properties, our right to kick government agents the hell out of our homes — all these things form the bedrock of a nation conceived in an earth-shattering truth: legitimate government power comes exclusively from the consent of the governed.  That truth — so simple, yet so rarely defended over the course of human history — is what makes America “exceptional.”  And those who either never understood this or were tragically taught to erase it from their minds have grown up as impoverished orphans in their own country — inheriting nothing from America’s rich past.

I have a friend who grew up in Nigeria.  Both he and his wife come from families that are held in high esteem.  Because those families are Christian, though, they have survived some dangerous situations and barely escaped threats on their lives.  Over many years, they immigrated to the United States and became American citizens.

I remember asking my friend what it was about America that drew them.  He told me that as he and his siblings were growing up, his mother would often tell them stories about America’s Founding Fathers and later leaders.  She talked about George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Benjamin Franklin.  She talked about Abraham Lincoln and the Emancipation Proclamation.  She described their physical features, what they accomplished, what they wrote, and what they meant to human history.  My friend said that his mother had put a love for America in his heart.

Over time I met many of his family members, and two things always stuck out: (1) even though they had endured an awful lot of hardship, they were some of the happiest people I had ever met, and (2) they all loved America.  Once while I was far from my own family, they insisted that I spend Easter with them.  When my friend’s mother found me, she embraced me as one of her own.  Eventually, I asked her about those stories she would tell her children, and she beamed as she started telling me what makes America such a special place.  I remember thinking how unusual it was that this woman from another nation seemed to know and love America more than so many ungrateful Americans born here.  And as a new citizen of the United States, she repeated something that I had heard her son say many times before.  She looked at me and said, “I really do not like it when people refer to me as African-American.  I am African, yes, but I am wholly American.”  (Even now her words remind me of the late, great Lloyd Marcus, another wonderful “unhyphenated” American.)  After meeting her, I realized why my friend is such a proud American.

That’s kind of funny, is it not?  Two mothers in two very different parts of the world taught their children to love America by educating them about America’s magnificent past.  No wonder the Marxists who run public schools in this country are so desperate to deprive young students of a solid education in American history.  Knowing what makes America “exceptional” is the first step toward falling in love with America.  And a person who falls in love with America falls in love with liberty.  Understanding the foundations of our country creates patriots for life.  

America may have an outsized share of tremendous Founding Fathers.  But this, too, is certain: generations of patriotic mothers have made sure she survives.  I thank them all.

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