The Flag in My Basement

There’s a flag in my basement. My wife recently brought it upstairs and asked why I don’t display it. It’s a fair question. To many, the American flag is a symbol of pride, freedom, and sacrifice. But for me, it’s something else entirely.

That flag flew over Iraq.

It was there during a mission where lives were lost. I was young then. Young, dumb, and energetic for the cause. I remember watching the footage of bombs being dropped, laughing at the people running from the building. That memory haunts me. Not because I was cruel, but because I was conditioned to believe that cruelty was righteous. That destruction was patriotic. That death was necessary.

I joined the military to escape poverty. Like many others, I was sold a vision: serve your country, earn respect, find purpose. But what I found was something far more complicated. I found myself part of a machine that taught me to dehumanize others for the sake of a flag. That flag.

Now, years later, I see that same machine turning inward. The same types of people—young, idealistic, desperate—are being deployed against their own countrymen and women. The flag that once represented a mission abroad now flies over domestic unrest. And I ask myself: where is my pride?

It’s in the basement.

That flag isn’t a decoration for me. It’s a reminder. Of who I was. Of what I did. Of what I believed. It reminds me of my humble beginnings, of the poverty I escaped, and of the cost of believing that violence could be noble.

I don’t display it because I haven’t yet made peace with it. Maybe one day I will. Maybe one day I’ll hang it up—not as a symbol of pride, but as a testament to growth, reflection, and the complexity of service.

Until then, it stays where it is.