It shouldn’t have come as any surprise to me that, at age five, Clyde is not big on the whole concept of civil disobedience; uncivil disobedience, sure–that he can’t get enough of–but the more refined, polite version of CD (at least as it is practiced outside of World Bank meetings), holds no interest for him whatsoever. Not that I can really blame him: after all, the kindergarten psyche runs more towards who throwed up than Henry David Thoreau. But still, even knowing that Walden will not appear on Clyde’s required reading list, I was a bit surprised when he refused to join me in ignoring the Pledge of Allegiance.
Let me start at the beginning: a few weeks ago I was late bringing Clyde to school. This meant two things: 1) As someone who is always early to the point of compulsion, I was cranky beyond belief at the thought of being late, and 2) We arrived at school just as they were starting the Pledge. At Clyde’s school, whenever the Pledge is announced everyone is supposed to stop what they are doing, stand, and recite (hopefully those who are in the bathrooms–at least those who are in the bathrooms not containing urinals–are excused from at least the standing portion of this rule).
This is apparently a well known fact: as soon as that day’s Pledge was announced every man, woman and child rushing through the hallways came to a complete stop, placed their hands over their hearts, and–like travelers who are not quite sure which way they should turn to face Mecca–focused their eyes on imaginary flags waving proudly somewhere in the distance and began to recite. As I said, judging from the transformation that occurred in the hallways, everyone knew that this was what they were supposed to do.
Obviously Clyde knew this, too, which would explain why, as soon as the Pledge was announced he dropped like an anchor at the end of my arm and refused to go one step further. I gave up on my desperate attempts to tow him along anyway after I noticed his heels were putting furrows in the carpeting: this boy was not moving. I couldn’t believe it: there, right before my very eyes, was my child–the child of my own loins–standing ramrod stiff, hand over his heart, and reciting a piece of fluff that had first come into vogue back when just about the only other way you could establish your patriotism was by not being German. (The same piece of jingoistic nonsense, I might add, that my own refusal to recite back in high school had left me cooling my heels in the principal’s office.) My liberal heart flopped over and lay still; suddenly I knew how Dick Cheney felt when his daughter came out as a lesbian. I was horrified: I wanted to make the sign of the cross (or whatever it is we atheists do); I wanted to shield my eyes with a copy of Mother Jones. I wanted to stop the painful realization that, this, too, was all my fault.
After all: hadn’t we sent our kids to public schools in the first place so that they could learn about diversity and how to follow the rules? How was I to know that diversity would mean people different than me, and that the rules would be ones I didn’t like?
Luckily, as I pondered the implications of all this, the next Pledge–the school Pledge–came on, and I could, with clear conscience, nod approvingly while Clyde pledged “to be a kid with character.” Now that’s a pledge I can get behind: if only his school would replace that other Pledge with a double recitation of the school one. In fact, it probably wouldn’t be a bad idea for the rest of the country to do the same. I’m sure Thoreau would approve.