It’s only a half-inch high by three-quarters of an inch wide. A red-white-and-blue rhinestone pin of the American flag, set against a 1-1/2 inch gold-plated staff. A small little trinket that sparkles when hit by light. Not worth much if it were to be sold at a yard sale.

       “I think you need this now,” she said as she placed it in my hand. That was November 1990, and as I opened my hand, I saw it. The “she” was Kathleen Gerber—Nana. Our relationship spanned many holidays, celebrations, birthdays. And we always had gifts for each other. But this was not one of those days. This was the day we learned that my son—her grandson—a combat Marine—had been sent to the Gulf.

       “You have to wear it until Jeff gets back,” she said.

      Not one to drape myself in red-white-and-blue anything, I hesitated, but Nana didn’t.

      “I mistakenly assumed she had just bought it, but she explained, I got this when Charlie left for the war,” she said. Charlie, her deceased husband, had served two years as a medic and later as a chaplain’s assistant during World War II. “I wore it until the day he came home to me,” she said, ”and now you need to put it on for Jeff.”

      It had been more than four decades since Nana put the pin in a bureau drawer, but on this day in 1990, that little flag sparkled no less dimly than the day she first wore it. And so, for more than a year, until my son, Nana’s grandson, came safely home from the Gulf War for Christmas, I too would wear it. And then, like Nana, I too tucked it away in a jewelry box.

      Tuesday, September 11, I retrieved it.

      This past week I found myself, like many other Americans, with no words to adequately express feelings. And somehow, in some way, my little pin helps, for embodied there is my sense of America.

      I hold the Constitution dear, in my mind and in my heart. It truly is America—it is the essence of our being. But we don’t commonly wave copies of that great piece of paper; instead we use a red, white, and blue symbol.

      I don’t have a flag the size of Rhode Island to display as do many places. I don’t tack flags to my car or wave them as some kind of trophy. I don’t even have a small-sized flag to put in our yard. I have no bunting, no banners, and no articles of flag-like clothing to wear. Instead, I wear one small, inexpensive rhinestone pin of the American flag, and although not an inch in either direction, it looms large. My little pin holds the historic patriotism of both a grandfather and a grandson who believed in America’s way of life and were willing to fight for it. It cradles within it the unending love of three generations for each other; it reflects over a half-century of steadfast support of a country and loved-ones defending it. And I like to think that those rhinestones sparkle from the tears born out of fear, sadness, and memories of both a beloved family and country.

      My little pin. Today I wear it again. I don’t want to—I need to. I fervently pray the time will be short until I can again put it away. And with great faith I know it will continue to sparkle and shine even at rest during peaceful times. So may America.

September 2001
Copyright 2001 Rosemary R. Brasch