Proud Moments in History

I don't suppose it should come as any surprise that the kids of rebels often grow up to be rebellious themselves. Bud's kids sure fit that profile! He's the oldest of my two older brothers.

He has two girls and a boy.

I won't regale you with their rebellious exploits -- OK, maybe one example will suffice . . .

If I told you both girls, as young teenagers -- when their mother insisted they attend her ultraconservative church -- appeared each week wearing only an over-sized men's sport jacket from the local thrift store over their underwear . . .

Szablis -- pronounced like the beverage -- changed her name from Monica after her folks split up.

One day she calls with a fairly normal niece-to-uncle request. An essay contest, sponsored by the Veterans of Foreign Wars, is offering $1,000 at the state level for first prize as well as an all-expense-paid trip to Washington, D.C. for the finals. The title has been pre-selected: Why I'm proud to be an American!

Clever, I think to myself. A bunch of old goats trying to get teenagers to at least give lip service to an outdated concept.

"Here's the thing," she says: "I have to turn it in by 5:00 p.m. today."

"It's one o'clock now!" I gasp, having absentmindedly glanced at my watch when she said 5:00 p.m.

"That's your time," she says. "Here on Kauai, we're five hours behind you. It's eight in the morning here."

"Call me back when your time's eleven," I sigh.

"Thanks, UD" -- that's short for Uncle Dave -- "I knew I could count on you!"

The wheels begin to turn -- slowly.

What could anyone say that hasn't already been said?

What would it take to shock the sensibilities of senile judges enough to get their attention? Then, before they had a chance to hit the gong in their minds, get them to see light in the underlying premise . . .

A picture starts to form.

VIP seating would probably consist of ten or so rows of VFWs in uniforms in varying degrees of gentrification.

I imagine my niece -- fresh faced, smiling (more like beaming -- she likes the limelight) -- beaming down at them, especially the judges, proudly asserting . . . what?

A small conspiratorial smile begins to form at the edges of my mouth. My only concern is whether she can pull it off with a straight face.

"You know what makes me proud to be an American?" I envision her saying. "It's when I see winos in the gutters of America, unmolested by police; when I see prostitutes hawking their wares on all four corners of each intersection of our major cities. It's when I hear ghetto blasters pounding out deafening decibels of pure evil! That's what makes me proud to be an American!"

(Pregnant pause)

"And do you know why? It takes tremendous restraint on the part of our country to allow this much freedom to exist in America. Our gut instinct is to crush what we see as abuse. Take away the wino's bottle. Install curfews to keep misguided girls off the streets. Create rules that say, anything that offends anyone at any time is subject to fines or imprisonment. You guys know what I'm talking about -- You fought for those freedoms!"

Blah, blah, blah.

Apparently my efforts were insufficient.

* * *

An hour before the deadline, Szablis calls to read me her her final draft.

"A flag flies proudly over the White House . . . "

Oh well, at least I tried . . .

"I can't do this,” she continues. "I'm not going to stand here and try to tell you what I think you want to hear."

(Pregnant pause)

"You know what really makes me proud to be an American?"

* * *

She came in second for Hawaii! Five hundred dollars isn't $1,000, but to a fourteen-year-old . . . Got to fly to Honolulu and share the platform with Senator Anoi. Then on to D.C. to compete as a backup in the nationals.

And here I thought they'd prob'ly yank her off the stage with a shepherd's hook, rebel that she is . . .