It was a sunny day, a little windy, but warm. I sat in the lawn chair on some small beach shoring the Clarks Hill Lake in Georgia, listening to the birds and the idle conversations of my company of three women and three men, friends of mine. The entire scene was utterly relaxing with the gentle sway of the lakes tide and the cool southern breeze brushing past my ears. I could feel my shoulders begin to burn under the sun. Soon, as my nerves quieted and settled, I fell asleep, without even realizing it.

           And I awoke back at the home of my mother and stepfather's, sitting on the couch, watching the latest news about the Elian child and seeing the pictures of ATF men rushing the boys family's house with guns loaded and sights steadily aimed, fingers just millimeters away from the trigger. My stepfather's on his computer, frantically typing away at a return email destined for some non-supporter of his cause: that is the saving of the Confederate Flag inside the Georgia State Flag. I could see him subconsciously cursing the ignorant mentalities on the opposite ends of his beliefs.

           "People don't realize that the Confederate Flag is not a symbol of slavery, it's a battle flag. People are ignorant." I would often hear him say.

           Yes, and as I watched him type away I said to myself "To hell with it all" and went back to watching to television. Only this time to see marchers protesting against the flying of the Confederate Flag which flies on some Confederate commemoration monument in South Carolina. There were both blacks and whites inside the crowd, chanting some unheard chant with a gaggle of mainstream newspaper journalists and photographers trailing behind them, crouching like a platoon of hunchbacks under fire from some invisible gunman.

           I had to leave, get out of the house, get away from reality for a little while. I was on vacation for Gods sakes. Why should I be bothered with that madness? So I got in my beat up Pontiac and drove away.

           It was Easter weekend, a Saturday afternoon to be specific, and everyone in town was in a festive, holiday mood. Stores selling peeps, chocolate bunnies, jelly beans, and all sorts of other sugar- loaded candies. Houses decorated in a Easter dress up with paper cut-outs of the Easter Bunny with movable joints, flying flags with colored eggs embroidered on them. At the local mall they were even paying some dude to sit inside a massively furry Easter Bunny suit for all the little kids to get pictures with. I even had the unspoken privilege to get a picture with him a couple of years prior, at my then girlfriends insistence, of course.

           I pulled into a gas station to pick up a soda and a pack of smokes and as I walked out a couple of teenagers passing by took time out of there extremely busy Easter schedule to swiftly kick and dent my Georgia State Flag license plate I have mounted to the front bumper of my car. I chased them off with a furious fist, heaving my can of Coke at them with it missing and merely exploding in the parking lot. One of them called me a racist as he ran. I caught a lot of odd looks as I drove off. I threw some hate music into the CD player and drove around the highways, weaving in and out of lanes, just missing the front ends and rear ends of cruising cars, pissed off, angry. And after three hours of doing this I drove back home, spent, wasted.

           I took the warped plate off the front of my car and brought it inside and tossed it on the living room carpet for the eyes of my folks to see.

           "What happened?" My stepdad asked.

           "A couple of kids kicked it in." I replied.

           "Are you serious?" My mom asked.

           "Yup, I came out of a gas station and caught `em doing it. I chased `em off. I couldn't believe it." I answered. They were obviously surprised and becoming distraught. I watched as my stepdads normally happy face turn to that of unhappy concern and frustration. He shook his head.

           "I wish I had caught `em, beat the crap out of `em." I said as I sat down.

           "Well, that wouldn't have solved anything." My mom replied.

           "I might have me a new plate." I justified.

           "Yeah, then you would have been the bad guy."

           My stepdad didn't say anything, just looked at the plate which he picked up off of the floor. He ran his fingers over the Confederate Flag and even tried to bend it back into shape. What could he say?

           I went to bed early that night and had horrible dreams. They started with the masses in the streets, a peaceful protest marching against the Confederate Flag. Pamphlets being passed out with words like Hate, Oppression, Racism, and Segregation written on them. "BOYCOTT THE FLAG," they read. And coming the opposite direction another group of marchers press forward, bearing great Nazi Flags and Confederate Flags, screaming violent chants and some even wearing their bed sheets over their bodies. The two masses meet and harsh words fly, then rocks, then bullets. And it spreads like a disease over the entire South. City streets erupting into the great fires of war that seem to affect so many country we try and save. Both black and white dead in the streets. Kids crying, not understanding the reason why dad's been shot out in the front lawn by a group of militant blacks. A black minister with his hands pointing toward God as his church burns to the ground.

           And through all of this, my stepfather sits behind his computer, updating his web page supporting the conservation of a Battle Flag of a once-upon-a-time-nation where so many of his ancestors died just defending their homes and families who lived under that flag. Slaves being no issue at all. Ironic that General Robert E. Lee of the Confederates States of America did not advocate slavery while General Ulysses S. Grant of the United States of America had slaves working at his home while he was off fighting for a country that wanted to see the slaves free.

           And as I dream, I see Lee and Grant turning in their deep graves, frustrated that their country, both nations, was at the verge of tearing itself apart over something that was a simple economic trend over a hundred years ago. Lee particularly, as he watches his flag which so many Americans died under get buried into the ground with him and written off as a dark, sadistic, vile time in American history, which in most peoples minds never even seemed to have happened.

           And as I watched my dad type away at his computer, working on his small web page, the house was set afire and bullets passed through the thin walls. A round passes through me and I fell to the ground, looking up at a painting of General Lee, General Longstreet, and General Stuart, looking out over a piece of open ground which they may have at one time fought on, looking at the hot burning fire that eats away at the canvas, creeping slowly toward them.

           Just before I pass out with blood loss I feel a something ice cold trickle down my neck and chest, snapping me awake not once but twice, placing me back on the warm, peacefully beach. One of my friends had decided I needed to be awoken and poured a bottle of ice water on me. Everything was back to normal, no bullets, flames, violent protests, death. But when I left the beach and went home and saw my stepfather hammering away a response to some hate email I wondered how much further are we to those bullets, flames, violence, and death.



© 2003 Jerad W. Alexander, all rights reserved
 appears here by permission