Dear America
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By:
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Draggin
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Mood:
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Eager to ride
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Date:
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Jul 04, 2008
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Music:
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None
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No I did not write this, I blatantly stole it from a friend, who did well. Dear America, You are not purple mountain majesties, or amber waves of grain. You are not a timeline of history. You are not a flag. If every one of your sons and daughters died overnight, so would you, America. Americans would take with them your culture, your mannerisms, your accent, the shared mindset that unites people more than any pledge of allegiance could hope to. America, you are us. And that is what I love about you. Your slang, your blockbuster movies, your Coca-Cola, your New York deli sandwiches stacked ten deckers high. Your summer nights smell sweet with watermelon juice and popsicle stickiness. Firm sidewalks in California stream beside everything from liquor stores to Disneyland. Peaceful villages in Vermont snooze amongst greenery luxurious. Then another day dawns. I love you not for the colors of your sunrise, which can be found everywhere, but for the Peterbilts thundering down a drowsy Highway 10. For radios flipping on all over, and the horrible morning DJs. For deep-bass hip-hop booming in the fresh air from cars speeding to work. You are not stupid. You are not worthless, America. You are not lazy, or mean, or fat. Some of those who claim to be your truest fans hate you the most. They say they are patriots but call you ugly to your face. They stuff a laundry list of complaints into your ear daily. You are not good enough for them because you are us. They would soak the earth with the blood of a million American people before they would allow one corner of a flag to touch the dirt. They say that they love you but believe that God hates you. They wait, indignant, for the Lord to strike the United States with doom. Hurricanes, fatal fires, meteors, they don't care. It's spiritual vigilantism. Feminists hold a convention in Seattle, and a bridge breaks on the other side of the country, killing dozens. Somewhere a televangelist declares the tragedy divine retribution, while a portrait of George Washington hanging on the wall behind him considers weeping blood. There are those who love an America no one has ever seen or heard or lived in. They love symbols. Not you. If anyone wants to recreate you to their specifications- a tighter, leaner, tougher, holier, mightier, tidier, sexier America- then they are going to have to fumigate. They will have to kill us, America. They will have to kill you, down to the final rebellious American. Including me. Loud, obnoxious, rude, and belligerent American me. Play ball. We started with a revolution. Like heck we're going to fall in line with a program now. I am you, America, and you are us. Happy birthday to you. And many mooooooooooooore.
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