Since 9/11, patriotic expressions in public life have dramatically soared. We see displays of the Stars and Stripes on cars, businesses, T-shirts, caps, lapel pins and even tattoos, along with bales of CDs with patriotic songs. During periods of social and political turmoil, America's leaders have always sought to impose rituals of loyalty, civics lessons and other forms of patriotic observance. In that tradition, George W. Bush has tried to define opposition to his war policy as unpatriotic. His first response to 9/11 included the declaration that "either you are with us or you are with the terrorists," a comment aimed not only at leaders of other nations but at domestic critics as well. (The misnamed Patriot Act was clearly designed to stigmatize dissent.) And the buildup to the Iraq invasion was framed by endless miles of star-spangled bunting and the continuous looping of "God Bless America."
This post-9/11 patriotic fervor has revitalized the conventional wisdom that love of country is synonymous with conservatism. Conservatives, we are told, wave the flag. Or wear it on their lapels. Leftists, by contrast, only scorn it. Or burn it. Since the Vietnam War era, many liberals and progressives have been uncomfortable about patriotism. They equate it with jingoism and militarism. They have been reluctant to wave the flag. They weren't sure it was theirs. And George W. Bush's brand of blind "my country right or wrong" jingoism has, on this Fourth of July, only deepened the dilemma.
But some progressives are now challenging this conventional reflex, no longer conceding that conservatives have a monopoly on Old Glory. During the weeks before Bush's invasion of Iraq, the anti-war movement countered with bumper stickers illustrated with an American flag that proclaimed, "Peace Is Patriotic." Since then, demonstrations against the invasion and occupation of Iraq have been festooned with American flags. The Veterans for Peace are doing more than any official body to publicly honor those who have given their lives in combat, creating symbolic Arlington cemeteries with crosses marking the war dead in a growing number of cities.
"Take Back Our Country," a line used by Pat Buchanan when he declared a cultural war at the 1992 Republican Convention, has now become a rallying cry for liberals. John Kerry has been appropriating the key line from Langston Hughes' Depression-era poem "Let America Be America Again" as a campaign slogan.
Indeed, throughout the nation's history, many American radicals and progressive reformers proudly asserted their patriotism. To them, America stood for basic democratic values – economic and social equality, mass participation in politics, free speech and civil liberties, elimination of the second-class citizenship of women and racial minorities, a welcome mat for the world's oppressed people. The reality of corporate power, right-wing xenophobia, and social injustice only fueled progressives' allegiance to these principles and the struggle to achieve them.
Nevertheless, progressives are faced with the tough question of what exactly it means to be patriotic in an increasingly global economy and interdependent world. Multinational corporations based in the U.S. obviously have no loyalty to this country. They do their best to outsource jobs to low-wage countries and to avoid paying taxes. (Ironically, most American flags are made in China, and Wal-Mart, whose founder, Sam Walton, promoted the motto "Buy American," now imports 60 percent of its merchandise and accounts for about 12 percent of all U.S. imports from China, most of it made under sweatshop conditions.)
But the slogan "Buy American," which sounds patriotic to some and protectionist to others, isn't much help if you're a progressive hoping to shop with a conscience. Most apparel produced in the U.S. is made under awful sweatshop conditions by companies that exploit immigrants and violate minimum-wage and other labor laws. Even the Department of Defense buys some of its uniforms from companies that operate sweatshops.
Progressives show their patriotism today by looking for a union label in their American-made clothes, or they can look for a "fair trade" label on various consumer goods made overseas. (Help is available from several nonprofit groups: www.fair tradefederation.com; www.transfairusa.org; www.nosweatapparel.com; and www.unionlabel.org.) The American activists who protested at World Trade Organization and World Bank meetings to demand better living standards for Third World workers aren't simply do-gooders. When workers in China or Mexico get paid a living wage, American companies have less incentive to move jobs from U.S. soil, and those workers have more money to buy U.S.-made products.
But let's get back to the Red-White-and-Blue. The flag, as a symbol of the nation, is not owned by the administration in power, but by the people. We battle over what it means, but all Americans – across the political spectrum – have an equal right to claim the flag as their own.
Most Americans are unaware that much of our patriotic culture – including many of the leading symbols and songs that have become increasingly popular since September 11 – was created by writers of decidedly progressive sympathies.
For example, the Pledge of Allegiance itself was originally authored and promoted by a leading Christian socialist, Francis Bellamy (cousin of best-selling radical writer Edward Bellamy), who was fired from his Boston ministry for his sermons depicting Jesus as a socialist. Bellamy penned the Pledge of Allegiance in 1892 to celebrate the 400th anniversary of Christopher Columbus' discovery of America by promoting use of the flag in public schools. He hoped the pledge would promote a moral vision to counter the climate of the Gilded Age, with its robber barons and exploitation of workers. Bellamy intended the line "One nation indivisible with liberty and justice for all" to express a more collective and egalitarian vision of America.
Bellamy's invocation of American patriotism on behalf of social justice is part of a hidden tradition. Consider the lines inscribed on the Statue of Liberty: "Give me your tired, your poor/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free." Emma Lazarus was a poet of considerable reputation in her day, who was a strong supporter of Henry George and his "socialistic" single-tax program, and a friend of William Morris, a leading British socialist. Her welcome to the "wretched refuse" of the earth, written in 1883, was an effort to project an inclusive and egalitarian definition of the American Dream.
And there was Katharine Lee Bates, a professor of English at Wellesley College. Bates was an accomplished and published poet, whose book America the Beautiful and Other Poems includes a sequence of poems expressing outrage at U.S. imperialism in the Philippines. A member of progressive-reform circles in the Boston area, concerned about labor rights, urban slums and women's suffrage, an ardent feminist, for decades she lived with and loved her Wellesley colleague Katharine Coman, an economist and social activist.
"America the Beautiful," written in 1893, not only speaks to the beauty of the American continent but also reflects her view that U.S. imperialism undermines the nation's core values of freedom and liberty. The poem's final words – "and crown thy good with brotherhood, from sea to shining sea" – are an appeal for social justice rather than the pursuit of wealth.
In the Depression years and during World War II, the fusion of populist, egalitarian and anti-racist values with patriotic expression reached full flower. Aaron Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man" and "A Lincoln Portrait" are now patriotic musical standards, regularly performed at major civic events, written by a member of a radical composers' collective.
Langston Hughes' poem "Let America Be America Again," written in 1936, contrasted the nation's promise with its mistreatment of his fellow African-Americans, the poor, Native Americans, workers, farmers and immigrants:
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real,
and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
In 1939, composer Earl Robinson teamed with lyricist John La Touche to write Ballad for Americans, which was performed on the CBS radio network by Paul Robeson, accompanied by chorus and orchestra. This 11-minute cantata provided a musical review of American history, depicted as a struggle between the "nobody who's everybody" and an elite that fails to understand the real, democratic essence of America.
Robeson, at the time one of the best-known performers on the world stage, became, through this work, a voice of America. Broadcasts and recordings of "Ballad for Americans" (by Bing Crosby as well as Robeson) were immensely popular. In the summer of 1940, it was performed at the national conventions of both the Republican and Communist parties. The work soon became a staple in school choral performances, but it was literally ripped out of many public school songbooks after Robinson and Robeson were identified with the radical left and blacklisted during the McCarthy period. Since then, however, "Ballad for Americans" has been periodically revived, notably during the bicentennial celebration in 1976, when a number of pop and country singers performed it in concerts and on TV.
Many Americans consider Woody Guthrie's song "This Land Is Your Land," penned in 1940, to be our unofficial national anthem. Guthrie, a radical, was inspired to write the song as an answer to Irving Berlin's popular "God Bless America," which he thought failed to recognize that it was the "people" to whom America belonged. The words to "This Land Is Your Land" reflect Guthrie's assumption that patriotism, support for the underdog, and class struggle were all of a piece. In this song, Guthrie celebrates America's natural beauty and bounty, but criticizes the country for its failure to share its riches, reflected in the song's last and least-known verse:
One bright sunny morning in the
shadow of the steeple
By the relief office I saw my people.
As they stood hungry I stood there wondering
If this land was made for you and me.
Stimulated by the recent nostalgia for World War II, old recordings by left-wing performers of the 1940s – Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger and the Almanac Singers, Josh White, Burl Ives, Leadbelly, and Paul Robeson – are, fortunately, undergoing a revival. This was material deliberately created to promote the war effort, expressing the passionate fervor of left-wing resistance to fascism. The best songs also express the conviction that the fight against fascism must encompass a struggle to end Jim Crow and achieve economic democracy at home. Indeed, President Franklin Roosevelt's speeches during that period reflect many of the same themes and images. And if you add to these songs the scripts of numbers of Hollywood war movies and radio plays by some of America's leading writers – some of whom were later blacklisted – it becomes clear that popular culture in support of that war was largely the creation of American leftists.
Even during the 1960s, American progressives continued to seek ways to fuse their love of country with their opposition to the government's policies. The March on Washington in 1963 gathered at the Lincoln Memorial, where Martin Luther King Jr. famously quoted the words to "My Country 'Tis of Thee," repeating the phrase "Let freedom ring" 11 times.
Phil Ochs, then part of a new generation of politically conscious singer-songwriters who emerged during the 1960s, wrote an anthem in the Guthrie vein, "The Power and the Glory," that coupled love of country with a strong plea for justice and equality. The words to the chorus echo the sentiments of the anti-Vietnam War movement:
Here is a land full of power and glory;
Beauty that words cannot recall;
Oh her power shall rest on the strength of her freedom
Her glory shall rest on us all.Â
One of its stanzas updated Guthrie's combination of outrage and patriotism:
Yet she's only as rich as the poorest of her poor;
Only as free as the padlocked prison door;
Only as strong as our love for this land;
Only as tall as we stand.
Interestingly, this song later became part of the repertoire of the U.S. Army band.
And in 1968, in a famous anti-war speech on the steps of the Capitol, Norman Thomas, the aging leader of the Socialist Party, proclaimed, "I come to cleanse the American flag, not burn it."
In recent decades, Bruce Springsteen has most closely followed in the Guthrie tradition. From "Born in the USA," to his songs about Tom Joad (the militant protagonist in John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath), to his anthem about the September 11 tragedy ("Empty Sky"), Springsteen has championed the downtrodden while challenging America to live up to its ideals.
Steve ("Little Stevie") Van Zandt is best known as the guitarist with Springsteen's E Street Band and, most recently, for his role as Silvio Dante, Tony Soprano's sidekick on The Sopranos. But his most enduring legacy should be his love song about America, "I Am a Patriot," including these lyrics:
I am a patriot, and I love my country, Because my country is all I know. Wanna be with my family, People who understand me. I got no place else to go.
And I ain't no communist, And I ain't no socialist, And I ain't no capitalist, And I ain't no imperialist, And I ain't no Democrat, Sure ain't no Republican either, I only know one party, And that is freedom.
In the midst of a controversial and increasingly unpopular war, and with a presidential election under way that will shape the nation's direction, there is no better way to celebrate America than to listen to Van Zandt's patriotic anthem. And while doing so, maybe waving a flag and remembering it's also yours.
In 1962, I was one of the several dozen people in their teens and early 20s who assembled at Port Huron, Mich., to spend several days debating and reworking a draft manifesto written by former California state senator Tom Hayden for the Students for a Democratic Society, the new left organization that sparked the mass antiwar protests of the 1960s. Our chutzpah was palpable: We thought, despite -- or because of -- our youth, that we could correct decades of left-wing failure and invent a fresh vision to inspire social action. And, indeed, the Port Huron Statement continues to merit attention today, if for no other reason than that it introduced a new phrase into the political lexicon: "participatory democracy."
Coined by Arnold Kaufman, Hayden's philosophy professor at the University of Michigan, the term distilled the vision of Kaufman's hero, John Dewey, of a never-ending political and social mission to extend the opportunity for human beings to have a voice in the "decisions that affect their lives." Such a mission strives to replace top-down control with democratic deliberation in every institutional structure from the nation-state to the family. New Leftists saw participatory democracy as a synthesis of the best elements of older radical ideological streams -- pacifism, anarchism, socialism, populism -- that expressed the common core of these: a quest for a social order in which human beings are increasingly able to determine their common fate rather than live at the mercy of dominating elites or impersonal forces.
Participatory democracy was a lens for looking at society at large; for many '60s activists it was also a frame for scrutinizing their own internal practices and relationships. Sixties social movements consciously tried to see if participatory democracy could, in fact, be practiced in their own organizations and communities. The books "Freedom Is an Endless Meeting" and "Making a Place for Community" describe such experiments, appearing 40 years after the Port Huron Statement.
Francesca Polletta's "Freedom Is an Endless Meeting" focuses on three '60s groups and their methods: Student Non-violent Coordinating Committee, the network of black and white youths founded in 1960, created by those who had sparked the sit-ins and freedom rides and became the prime organizers of the Mississippi freedom struggle; Students for a Democratic Society, which tried in the mid-'60s to emulate SNCC's organizing approach in several Northern cities and, after launching protests against the Vietnam War, became a membership organization of tens of thousands; and the women's liberation movement as expressed by a variety of local collectives and consciousness-raising groups.
Polletta's interviews with scores of veteran activists lead to a deep portrayal of the ways in which activists tried to fuse moral principle and strategy. This portrayal challenges the common assumption that morality and strategy are incompatible, that those who aim at winning must compromise principle while those who insist on morality are destined to be ineffective.
Decision-making in these groups, Polletta shows, borrowed from the Quakers and other pacifist groups and emphasized consensus. She explains that the adoption of consensus was not only a matter of principle, it also ensured that their high-risk organizing and protesting derived from the genuine commitment of all. Rather than forge group discipline on command, as armies or revolutionary undergrounds do, these groups sought solidarity through deliberation and open communication. It may have led to the frustrations of "endless meetings" but also made members take ownership of group decisions.
SNCC worked in the poorest black communities of the Deep South, trying to mobilize people who lacked formal schooling and were unaccustomed to public talk or action. Yet rather than lead in the usual sense, SNCC organizers taught and listened, enabling the "indigenous" people to take leadership. SDS' organizing efforts in poor Northern neighborhoods emulated this principle of participatory democracy: to train voiceless people to speak in their own interest rather than be spoken for.
Such '60s efforts to use the democratic meeting as a space for democratic tutelage, Polletta suggests, had roots in earlier important but now obscure projects in labor education -- projects that helped develop large numbers of leaders with working-class roots. Similarly, one can trace much of the post-1960s black leadership in the South to the training effects of the civil rights movement.
A key characteristic of '60s movements was their decentralization: They were far more alive and real in their local bases than in their national offices, and members often rebelled when national leadership tried to actually lead. The radical feminism of the late '60s even dispensed with national organization altogether, opting to be entirely made up of local, autonomous groupings, which can also be attributed to the women's liberation groups of the later 1960s and early 1970s.
Conventional wisdom has it that the New Left failed. The reasons usually given for that failure emphasize the very practices just listed. An organization's political success is usually measured by its longevity and growth and by the increasing influence of its leaders. By such measures, the 1960s organizations that Polletta describes certainly failed; they fragmented, lost direction and disappeared. But Polletta argues that the decline of these groups was not due to their democratic practices but to the whirling chaos of the time and their members' inexperience.
Rather than dwell on trying to explain the decline of the '60s movements, Polletta shows how participatory democracy has become the guiding framework for many of today's activists. Indeed, new movements, drawing on the lessons of the past, are able to practice democracy more effectively than their earlier counterparts. The anti-globalization mobilizations of recent years show how decentralized networks can bring together large, diverse numbers, releasing surprising energy and creativity. Current antiwar protests are happening with very little evident structure or stable leadership; the Internet is a useful tool for decentralized dissemination of ideas and action plans. As Polletta suggests, democratic possibilities lie not so much in formal civic organizations but in the practices and demands of grass-roots movements.
"Making a Place for Community," however, argues that participatory democracy can form the basis of public policy as well as movement practice. Gar Alperovitz was an important mentor to young activists in the 1960s, and ever since, he has been trying to work out a strategic framework for participatory democratic reform of the economy. With David Imbroscio and Thad Williamson, he traces the ways in which local community in the U.S. is undermined by free-trade regimes, by urban sprawl and by the competition among cities and states for corporate investment. Each of these forces is facilitated by government policies favoring the rights and prerogatives of large corporations over the economic stability and social viability of communities. The result? A decline of local democracy and the "throwing away" of neighborhoods, towns and regions.
Conventional wisdom assumes that local decline and urban sprawl are inevitable consequences of the free market -- to be lived with and adapted to. But "Making a Place for Community" challenges such assumptions. Hardly inevitable, such decline, it forcefully argues, is fostered to a high degree by government policies -- subsidies, tax structures and programs. But the book aims not simply to critique but also to inventory alternative policies that could work in favor of community stability, local sustainability and democratic revival.
One of the ironies of the way we now live is the extent to which we are trashing the very thing that founders such as Thomas Jefferson believed was the source of our national promise: the local community. The authors want to restore that Jeffersonian vision, but, ironically, they argue that this requires alternatives to private ownership and control of capital. Communities must create, support and even own local businesses; workers should be able to take over when private owners abandon a firm; community control of land is essential if environmental and agricultural needs are to be protected.
Every reform advocated here is in practice somewhere in the U.S.: There is, in short, more participatory democracy in our society than anyone recognizes. Embedded in the social landscape are a host of employee-owned firms, community development corporations, land trusts, co-ops, community banks and other forms of non-private enterprise. Many of the authors' reform proposals can, accordingly, be tested by seeing how they are already working. Final irony: The Democratic Party could construct a potentially popular program for economic revitalization by proposing effective decentralization of power to the grass-roots. Such a program would challenge the established Republican design to concentrate power in corporate rather than public hands, while transforming traditional Democratic conceptions of the role of the federal government.
The ideas in "Making a Place for Community" reflect the vision glimpsed at Port Huron 40 years ago, and, like Polletta's "Freedom Is an Endless Meeting," the book presents ideas that flow logically from the demands and experiences of grass-roots activists in the years since. For these last 40 years, a new politics, in which people take control of their communities, has been fermenting. These books help us see the social promise in that.
This essay originally appeared in the Los Angeles Times Book Review. Richard Flacks is a professor of sociology at UC Santa Barbara and the author of "Making History: The American Left and the American Mind."