Of My America
As a child, I was proud to be an American—mostly because I was told that my country was the best. That’s what kids dig: being the best.
As a child, I was proud to be an American—mostly because I was told that my country was the best. That’s what kids dig: being the best.
The government finds itself much closer to a First Amendment violation now than it was when churches were merely indulging in that same Amendment’s provision for the free expression of religion.
When a painting is hung in the White House, is it propaganda? If it stays in the White House when the administration changes, does it switch parties? Does art comment on policies, laws, and wars, or does art inhabit a politics-free zone?
Have I fled from the present world in order to escape into the past, and what account can I then give of myself to those who will inherit this world in the future?
Laughing at the news every few days is an act of cultural catharsis, removing the stench of our world’s stupidity by laughing it away. But is a medicine that causes you to purge and forget really the best medicine?
Those lovable lefties have taken up the faithful arms of that pesky Eighth Amendment once more in order to propel the next Great Debate: life imprisonment for minors.
The American political dialogue would be in less trouble if leaders had to debate like those students did.
Do all these words, all this time spent building a case, ever actually work to convince somebody that the position that they hold is wrong and that they should exchange it for another, more correct stance?
To me, the only wrong place to wear a political t-shirt is church.
Those who make their beds with determination to lie in them should be allowed to do so.