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What America
means to me
The U.S. Constitution
really isn’t a complex document, for all that it
gives to you and me.
There are those out there
who enjoy twisting it, striving through lawyers and
demagoguery to take this sacred document and turn it
into the rules on the barn wall in George Orwell’s
Animal Farm. Those people are the ones who
are either ashamed of being Americans, or are too
frightened of America’s greatness to be willing to
take a part in her majesty, hence they must, pardon
the pun, try to take apart her majesty.
When I hear of people exercising their freedom of
speech to run down this country, I have to wonder –
just what does America mean to them?
That naturally begs the
question – what does America mean to me?
It means I can freely
express my faith in Jesus Christ; America,
regardless of what the revisionists want us to
think, was built on a strong foundation in the
God-given right to worship.
America means if I am
willing to work hard enough, I have as much chance
as anyone else to better myself. Regardless of the
whiners and wallowers who revel in shame and filth,
America still offers anyone the opportunity to
improve their station in life. Some will succeed,
some will fail, but all have the right to try.
In America, I can cross
the street or the country with little fear of some
government functionary demanding to know why I wish
to do so. What America means to me is that as long
as I obey the laws, I can own a firearm for hunting,
protecting my family, or just because I like guns.
What America means to me
is that I have a right to vote, and it comes with
the responsibility to make wise choices when I cast
a ballot for people who will lead our communities
and country.
What America means to me
is that I can express myself through the written or
spoken word, and no matter how often I trod on toes,
no elected official has the legal right to prevent
me from expressing my view. I can also read or
listen to whichever viewpoints I desire, and make up
my own mind.
America means all these
things to me, and so much more.
What America means to me
is that for four centuries, people have been willing
to stand up for the idea that each person has
certain rights granted by God; how you use those
rights is your choice. Yes, it took nearly two
centuries for those folks to come together and
agree, and nearly two more before those rights were
extended to all people, but those rights aren’t
available anywhere else in the world.
Sometimes Americans have
had to stand beside other countries against the evil
of this world – it’s still happening, although too
many in Washington think that evil is here, not in
the hearts of those who hate freedom. Members of my
family and extended family have defended our country
since the first government at Jamestown. That I
could not serve just makes me all the prouder of my
Uncles Jim, Bob, Larry, and Johnny, not to mention
my Grandfather Weaver and brother-in-law Gil and now
his son, my “nevoo” John Thomas.
It embarrasses me
sometimes when I see people who are, at least
figuratively, fat and happy with freedom, yet
persist in whining. They expect something to be
done, yet don’t have the spine to take hold of the
plow lines and help till the field.
Whenever I see someone
like that, it helps to see people like my friend Faz
Graham.
She’s a naturalized
citizen who started baking cookies, brownies and
cakes at home. Last year, she opened a bakery on a
corner where few businesses have succeeded, but
she’s making it work.
Faz started with next to
nothing but her faith, her skill at cooking, and her
love of America. She told me once how there was no
place in the world that could give anyone an
opportunity like America.
Then there’s Paco. I’ve
never been sure if that’s his name or a nickname,
but he came to America from Guatemala (legally, I
might add) to work, and fell in love with America.
He worked and scratched and sacrificed and jumped
through the hoops, and a couple of years ago took
the oath of citizenship. I’m willing to bet six out
of 10 natural-born Americans couldn’t pass that
test. Paco told me he cried when he held his hand up
and swore to be true to America.
Paco has never received
welfare benefits, and because this is America, his
employer is successful enough to offer insurance
that helps him care for his family. His children are
all Americans – not “anchor babies” born to thwart
the system, but American children who play baseball
as well as soccer, and speak English.
Whenever I hear the
complainers and naysayers, I have to ask myself,
what does America mean?
America, to me, is a
cornfield lovingly tilled by my friend Dean and his
father. It’s a family car loaded with happy kids
headed for a well-earned vacation, stopping to ride
the Elwell Ferry before heading on to the beach.
America is a group of
citizens attending a meeting of their elected
officials and speaking their minds, regardless of
the popularity of their opinion.
America is a freckled-faced girl with a lemonade
stand beside an old church in a small town, dreaming
of the day she could be president of the United
States. America is a little boy wanting to be a
firefighter, just like his daddy.
America is a cool church
on a hot Sunday morning with a preacher reminding
people that another place is much, much hotter.
America is people choosing whether or not to worship
in that church, whether or not I think they should
be there.
America is a community
led by people who listen and honestly do their best
to do what’s right for its citizens – not because
they fear those citizens might vote them out, but
because it’s the right thing to do.
America is the right to
express an opinion, just as it is the right to
disagree with someone else’s opinion. No one,
however, has the right not to be offended.
America is the blood and
sweat and love of young men and women who go halfway
around the world to help someone else learn of the
beauty and freedom that are America.
That’s what America is to
me.
Take a few minutes this
weekend, if you will, and think about what America
means to you – and remember why you have the right
to do so.
Because this is America.
Weaver is a syndicated writer
who lives in Kelly. Email him at
jeffweaver@newsreporter.biz.
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