Hurray for the Red, White, Black, and Blue, Part 1: Hit Me Baby, One More Time

Loving America is a lot like being in an abusive relationship, I would imagine.

At first, the relationship goes wonderfully. America showers you with attention and presents. America talks big and tells you how it's going to be for you two, when you're married, when you're settled in your new home, with your consumer goods and kids. It's exciting! Maybe a little too exciting! You can't catch your breath!

So you make the commitment. How could you not? He's the best thing you've ever known--albeit the only thing you've ever known. Everyone around you tells you how lucky you are, and who are you to argue otherwise?

And you believe it all. Until America starts neglecting to come home from work on time. Or doesn't come home at all. And doesn't even bother to call.

Other things seem amiss, and America is vague on details when you start to question him. Worried, feeling needy, you ask what's changed, what's gone wrong, what have I done?

But America isn't sorry. In fact, he's pissed off at you for asking, for "nagging" and "bitching."

"Bitch," he calls you. "Nigger." "Faggot." He spits at you.

"But wait!" you say--

And then it happens. He snaps. He slaps you hard across the face.

You scream and cry, and America cries, too, and promises never, ever, ever to hurt you again. There, there, baby, it'll be alright. I'll give you the moon and the stars, a trip to the Moon, and then to Mars. Or maybe Afghanistan and Iraq, too.

Nevertheless, they're all empty promises. America hits you again. And again. And again. And again. And again.

You cry, you wail, you grieve your guts out over your pain and the injustice of it all. Haven't you been there for America? Don't you feed it and care for it and give it money when it needs it?

You try to tell your family and friends, but they don't want to know, can't really fathom, don't see things the same way. You realize that either they don't care or that they're being abused by America, too, their own version of America at least. They just don't call it abuse though. 'Cause for them it seems normal by now.

They just tell you to tough it out, whatever it is, the problem you think you have. It's the best you're gonna get, so why make yourself miserable wanting something you can't have? Eat it. Suck it. Swallow it.

America cried with you at first, but then, he doesn't bother apologizing anymore and, worse, starts to blame you for his abuses. You cry louder at first, but this only makes him angrier, and the abuse intensifies and frightens you more.

So your tears dry up, and you start to suffer quietly on your own. That is, on the days when you feel anything at all.

Sometimes you don't know if America is going to kill you. Somedays you think it may have already done so. You feel dead inside, at least. Maybe you've killed yourself. Maybe you should.

After a time, too, you can't distinguish the abuse from a better reality--because the abuse is your reality. It feels normal, regular, expected. Maybe even anticipated. You start to want it a little maybe. 'Cause it's the only thing that makes you feel anymore.

You see others around you, suffering, screaming, fighting--for a while at least. At first you feel sympathy for them. You remember when . . .

But then, their complaints become tedious. Annoying. Enraging!

Why can't they just deal with it? Tough it out! Stop whining! It's the best you're gonna get! There's nothing else out there, certainly nothing any better, so don't go looking, don't go expecting!

And then you snap. And you slap. And in that very instance, you become just like America.