Above is a photo from the big No Kings rally that took place on June 14, some 40 days ago. It was one of the biggest, if not the biggest, rallies that I’ve seen in some 23 years of living in the Pioneer Valley. There were clowns and musicians, signs and placards, people in various costumes across all ages, rainbow flags, Palestinian flags, and banners of all kinds, a huge outpouring of enthusiasm and resistance. What don’t you see here? What didn’t I see there that day?

An American flag.

Take a look at the recent demonstrations in Kenya against harsh economic measures, and you see its flag of four colors.  Demonstration in Georgia against increasing Russian influence? There’s the white flag with its five red crosses. Red, blue, and white stripes in Serbia against government corruption. And Israeli weekend demonstrations against the government? Thousands of blue-and-white flags waving in the wind as they enter Jerusalem. All are anti-government, fighting against those in power, like so many of our rallies here in the United States. But few, if any, American flags.

Last weekend, while shopping in a Hadley mall, I saw a sedan and a truck, large American flags hoisted through their open windows and engines revved up, making as much noise as possible as they drove up and down the aisles of parked cars and in front of the stores. Right in our face, I thought to myself as I darted inside. But what’s right in our face?

In the No Kings rally, person after person talked into the central microphone about this current government’s effect on their respective groups: LGBTQ, Black Lives Matter, Native Americans, immigrants, climate activists, etc. I listened carefully to words that were barely audible over the chants, drumming, music, and yelling. All made their cases on behalf of their particular constituents, but there was very little sense of how supporting these different causes was part of a bigger national vision for a country that needed support, too. A land with a history of certain basic revolutionary principles unequally applied, but much copied and envied.

Certain people say that liberals have no love for this country and very little sense of loyalty to something bigger than themselves. The towns here have American flags flying off trees and poles on main streets for much of the summer, from Memorial Day in the end of May through the Fourth of July, and often even later, till Labor Day in early September. There are purple decals informing you that the town you’re driving through is a purple heart town, meaning that at least one family has a member who was wounded or died in war.

Long ago I participated in an evening featuring an English teacher of Tibetan Buddhism. He spoke to us in someone’s Manhattan living room, and towards the end mentioned anecdotally that when he came through Customs in the New York airport, the agent said to him: “Sir, welcome to the United States.”

“I said thank you,” he told us, eyes shining. “I was very moved.” Then he noticed some of us New Yorkers snickering and said: “I thought that was very courteous and welcoming. You seem to be a cynical lot.”

This was long before many of the issues that now dominate the headlines—the threat to democracy, anxiety re climate change, and out-of-control immigration—appeared. Ill will towards minorities of various kinds has been with us since the get-go, as the teacher knew very well, and still he was surprised by our stubborn lack of enthusiasm for things American. We simply don’t wave that flag, and that includes me.

I find it hard to love collectives, be they geographical (all Americans), cultural (everyone who comes from Brooklyn), or religious (Buddhists, or the Jewish nation). I love individuals, not symbols. Pledging allegiance to a flag always came hard to me, even as a girl, including “to the republic for which it stands” and its basic formulations, if only because I knew that liberty and justice were not meted equally to all. Almost from birth, I was aware that life was a lot more complicated than any combination of words, be they Shakespeare’s or God’s.

Liberals accuse the right of stealing the flag for their own purposes, but my experience is that we gave it up long ago. Maybe because it’s hard to see past our individual or group grievances, hard to summon excitement for ideals in a land that was essentially stolen. Is that what it is, that we don’t feel we truly belong here, in this place of inconstancy, disillusionment, and even brutal violence? And yet, so many millions of people risked life and limb to come to this very place that we hold at arm’s distance.

If that’s the case, where do we belong? Holland? India? A long-ago boyfriend left this country to move to India, only to be so horrified by the violence between Hindus and Muslims after the murder of Indira Gandhi that he scooted right back here, where he found a most imperfect world, causing him to shake his head at so many things American. Where did he find refuge? As near as I could tell, in the rural outdoors and in his own individuality, the beauty, talent, creativity, and kindness that were all him.

Is that what’s left to us? Are we waiting for some ideal union in order to love something greater than ourselves, our family, or our community? What kind of loyalty do we owe this crazy mixed bag consisting of less than half of North America? And why can’t we find in ourselves that minimal quotient of devotion exhibited by citizens of countries way less fortunate than our own? Why can’t we see it as a country founded many years ago that has become an errant child, at times fulfilling our fondest expectations, more often not, but still requiring our care? Still requiring love?