Portrait of a Misguided American
Who this man is and what his motives were, I do not know.
He stormed my house and yours. Upright with a pose that stands dramatic against the faces behind him. Faces of paint that tell the tale of struggle, of history, of triumph. Yet there stands a man who, while dressed in colors of mourning, stands defiant of the presupposition of death. Of a defeat of purpose or cause, ideal or movement, politics or persuasion.
Today, a strange banner-man made history in our house. He wasn’t allowed to do so. Not welcomed to do so. Did not have our consent to do so. Yet it was done. Taking hostage those shared dreams and convictions built into the stones that hold upright our house. Dismissing them. Blocking them with the flag of his cause. Descending, as if he believed himself to be on-high, along the old and storied granite details while he attempts to insert himself into our shared narrative. Perhaps some believe the stain to be permanent, but it of course cannot be.
Here lies a depiction not of a man standing for a cause with bravery or earnest intention, but a man armed with smirk. A citizen motivated not by a distress so genuine it makes the voice cry for liberty and the blood warm for justice, but motivated by a desire to pose among the paintings and statues of great men. Attempting to usurp our history for himself. Not a stain, only a distraction. A mirage that reminds us to refocus the love of our nation, of our history, and of our fellow Americans— Of All Our Fellow Americans.
Here stands the portrait of a misguided man. Covered in writing on his banner, on his cap, on his chest, but standing without really saying anything at all. Predicable. Predictably dismissed—perhaps at times too much so. A portrait of a man who is not above us or below us. A man who stormed our house—his own house. Here stands the portrait of a man whose face is known, but who remains truly faceless and forgettable.
Who this man is and what his motives were, I will never know.
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