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Nostalgia is often an unproductive emotion. Our memories can deceive us, particularly as we age. However, there are moments when nostalgia can remind us of something significant. As we celebrate yet another Fourth of July, I can’t help but feel wistful about the patriotism that was once prevalent in America—and acutely aware of how much I long for it.
This realization struck me unexpectedly as I was driving to the beach near my home. I am a true New Englander at heart. I was born and raised near the beautiful Berkshires, and I received my education in Boston. I have lived in Vermont and New Hampshire, and now I am settled in Rhode Island, on the shores of the Atlantic. Despite having a career that took me to New York and Washington, D.C., I must admit that I am a living cliché of regional loyalty—and perhaps, a bit of provincialism.
As I approached the dunes, thoughts of lobster rolls and the saltwater filled my mind. And then, that tearjerker of a John Denver song about West Virginia came on my car radio.
Ironically, the song isn’t really about the Mountain State, but rather inspired by locations in Maryland and Massachusetts. However, having been to West Virginia myself, I know it is a truly beautiful place. While I have never desired to live anywhere other than New England, every time I hear “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” I can briefly understand why no one would want to live anywhere else but West Virginia.
In that moment, I experienced a surge of a feeling we used to associate with patriotism: a joyous love for one’s country. Patriotism, unlike its less desirable counterpart, nationalism, is rooted in optimism and confidence. Nationalism is a bitter inferiority complex, a resentful attachment to unrealistic fantasies of ancestral heritage that always looks towards foreign lands with insecurity and even hatred. Instead, as I gazed upon the New England shoreline, I envisioned the Blue Ridge Mountains in my mind, and I was overcome with awe—and gratitude—for the miracle that is the United States.
David Waldstreicher: The Fourth of July has always been political
Oh, how I miss that feeling. Nowadays, when I think of West Virginia, my initial thought tends to be: red state. I now perceive many voters there, as well as in other states, as my civic opponents. I know that when they hear “Boston,” they likely think of a place filled with their blue-state enemies. I feel an immense divide between myself and so many of my fellow citizens, and I’m sure they feel the same towards people like me. And I despise it.
As I made my way home to prepare for the holiday weekend, my thoughts kept drifting back to another summer, 40 years ago, in a different America and a different world.
Upon graduating college in 1983, I spent the summer in the Soviet Union studying Russian. I resided in Leningrad (now St. Petersburg), a magnificent city permeated with an unmistakable sense of malevolence. KGB agents were everywhere, making themselves visible to visiting Americans like me and the Soviet citizens who may converse with us. I witnessed firsthand what oppression looks like when individuals are afraid to speak in public, associate freely, move about as they wish, and practice their religion without fear. I also witnessed the power of propaganda: I was repeatedly asked by Soviet citizens why the United States was intent on starting a nuclear war, as if the scent of gunpowder was in the air and doomsday was around the corner.
I was part of a group of American students, eager to meet Soviet people. Leningrad is situated so far north that during summer, the sun never truly sets. We engaged in warm conversations with young Leningraders, despite the aggressive presence of the KGB, along the banks of the Neva River during the peculiar dimness of the “White Nights.” Among ourselves, our interactions were what one would expect from college students: new friendships were forged, conflicts simmered, romances blossomed, and cliques formed.
However, encountering other Americans in a foreign land felt like a long-awaited family reunion. The distances in the United States no longer mattered. Boston and Jackson, Chicago and Dallas, Sacramento and Charlotte—all of us were like next-door neighbors meeting in an unfamiliar and inhospitable land. It’s difficult to convey to today’s globalized and mobile generation the sense of camaraderie inspired by encountering fellow Americans overseas during a time when international travel was a rare luxury. But encountering other Americans in a place like the Soviet Union often felt like being reunited with long-lost family members, despite our status as complete strangers.
Read: What if America had lost the revolutionary war?
Years later, I returned to a more open U.S.S.R. under the leadership of Mikhail Gorbachev. I was part of an American delegation attending an arms control workshop with members of the Soviet diplomatic and military establishments. We all stayed together on a riverboat, where our meetings were held. (Unfortunately, the boat traversed the Dnipro River in Soviet Ukraine, and I witnessed towns and cities, like Zaporizhzhya, that have since been reduced to ruins.) One morning, our Soviet hosts woke us up by playing the song “The City of New Orleans” in our staterooms, with its refrain of “Good morning, America. How are ya?” It felt like a warm greeting from home, even though I hadn’t visited any of the locations mentioned in the lyrics (New Orleans, Memphis … Kankakee?).
Nowadays, many Americans view each other as foreigners in their own country. Montgomery and Burlington? Charleston and Seattle? The distances between us may as well be interstellar. We speak of “blue” and “red,” and we label each other communists and fascists, flippantly using terms that were once fighting words among more serious individuals.
I will not attempt to argue both sides of this issue: I have no patience for those who casually label anyone they disagree with as “fascists,” although these individuals are a small and vexing minority. The reality is that the Americans who have taught us all to despise one another simply because of license plates or regional accents are the trailblazers of the new American right. They have attained fame and fortune by sowing division and even sedition.
These are the people we encounter on the radio, television, and even in the halls of Congress. They encourage us to fly Gadsden and Confederate flags and deface our cars with obscene and idiotic bumper stickers. They subject us to mindless ramblings about national divorce, all the while capitalizing on purchases, ratings, and donations. These individuals have made it challenging for any of us to feel patriotic; they have polluted the essence of patriotism with the foul stench of nationalism, all to rouse Americans to oppose one another.
Tom Nichols: Gorbachev’s fatal trap
Their appeals diminish every voter, including those of us who resist their propaganda, because all of us who hear them find ourselves drawing lines and taking sides. When I think of Ohio, for instance, I no longer envision a heartland state and the birthplace of presidents. Instead, I question how my fellow American citizens could elect such disreputable individuals like Jim Jordan and J.D. Vance to Congress—men whose personal ambitions supersede their fidelity to the Constitution, and whose love for country I will openly challenge. Similarly, when I think of Florida, all I see is a natural paradise transformed into a political wasteland by some of the most absurd and reprehensible figures in American politics.
What truly shakes me is the fact that many of my fellow Americans, influenced by cynical right-wing media charlatans, are now supporting Russia while Moscow wages a criminal war. These
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