One of the topics we don’t seriously discuss in modern America is how parents shape the next generation’s view of our country. There are obvious ways, of course. It takes only seconds to find images of elementary school kids in MAGA hats and tee ball players at No Kings rallies. And it’s certainly not a new topic. The story arc of early indoctrination, followed by teenage rebellion and finally becoming yourself is ingrained in stories older than books.
But there are less overt, less intentional ways in which parents frame their children’s impressions of the United States. Ways that deserve attention. One of them is the example set adults set in how they interact with others, finding common ground or not in front of the kids who watch it all happen in real time.
In my family, political debates were loud, sometimes kind of personal and were mostly forgotten quickly.
My grandfather served during World War II, playing the trumpet in a band division of the Army. He referred to the war as “the big one,” and as far as I could tell, from the end of his service until his death he never doubted that he had played a part in a great achievement. He carried all the pride and none of the haunting that the other WWII vets in my family had. He glorified all things Army-related. Every once in a while, he’d hang out at the bar at the VFW in our small town to reminisce and comment on the state of the world. He always made sure to let us know when he’d made it down to the VFW.
My father served a tour in the 101st Airborne Division of the U.S. Army during Vietnam and earned a Bronze Star. He carried a rifle in the jungle for weeks at a time and rarely referred to the war by name after coming home. Until his later years, he never seemed to know what to feel about his experience and even then, I don’t think he ever fully came to terms with it. He did not glorify Army-related things. He told me that he had been to the VFW bar once or twice, but did not like it.
My grandfather’s patriotism was unmitigated and all-encompassing. Both international and domestic politics could be cleanly split between those who were pro-America and those who weren’t. My father very strongly believed in America but felt that its leaders needed to be watched and questioned – not taken at their word. He believed the world was too complicated to be easily divided between good guys and bad guys. Both men believed in American exceptionalism, the power of American free enterprise and that the United States was unique in offering unlimited opportunity contingent upon your willingness to work.
As a kid, I was both the audience and the subject of their political disagreements. “He’s going to go to West Point!” my grandfather would aver. “The hell he is,” my dad would counter. Sometimes, my grandfather would then point out that his generation had won their war. My dad would respond by noting he couldn’t think of a single conflict that had been decided by the sound of a trumpet. They’d get past these arguments, but never quite fully.
I watched their disagreements, never sure what to make of it. That would come later.
Too often, we talk about finding “common ground” with those we disagree with, but the phrase falls short. Common ground is a trope, a phrase used in the opening of countless political introductions meant to purchase credibility. It’s a promise of a checklist or Venn diagram. But real commonality, the kind that can help us, draws from something deeper. Something more human and more connected.
My grandfather spent the final seven-plus years of his life bedridden, confined to one room of his empty house with a hospital bed and a small TV. (Don’t smoke, kids.) He’d watch the local news, the network news, and game shows, using them to inform the state of the world outside his house. His outdated conviction of the many things wrong with the world metastasized. Yet, somehow, every night for nearly two presidential terms, my father went to see him. He’d drive over to my grandfather’s house after dinner to check on him. To make sure he had what he needed, and to give him someone to rant to. To make sure he was heard and connected to another. I was lucky enough to accompany him on many of those trips, but probably not as many as I should have.
This is the political example set for me and it’s a tricky one because, as far as I can tell, it doesn’t contain a broad systemic recommendation for a better political environment or more efficient debate. There’s no suggestion of issues we can all support or a framing of our challenges that makes for a better dialogue. For a better America. What it does offer, though, is a template for how an individual can make the country better, without persuasion, facts, or conversion of beliefs. Just abiding and care for others.
At a time when I repeatedly hear stories of families torn by political disagreements, I am eternally grateful to have the example provided to me by my father and grandfather and I hope that in some small way, I am passing it along to the next generation. In fact, that is my hope for all of us.