Half-Mast
In October, on a long drive, I passed a flag at a dealership along the side of the highway, hanging at half-mast. It was a large flag, the kind of flag that proudly proclaims patriotism, capitalism, naivety. The kind usually flapping in the wind, alongside balloons or that dancing inflatable man; the kind I usually register with a side eye or a sneer. This time, hanging low, it registered with shocked silence followed by an outburst of laughter.
Eleanor and Lauren and I we were driving back to San Francisco on a Sunday afternoon. We’d just spent the weekend in Sonoma. We’d swam and cooked and read and danced and turned off our phones and tuned out the news. We left San Francisco on Friday evening, in a hurry, as if we were escaping something. And in so many ways, we were. The wild fire smoke that started in August, intensified in September, and covered everything in a thin layer of ash had made the last weeks difficult. As this trip approached (already delayed and rescheduled once due to smoke), the forecast got only worse: the air quality was expected to reach red levels of dangerous where we were going. As we debated what to do, Lauren said she’d rather be in terrible smoke somewhere else than bad smoke at home. And the news cycle, too, had not relented. Trump had been admitted to the hospital with COVID-19. Many White House staffers were infected or exposed, too. And still, the President refused to talk about the pandemic with any seriousness, dismissing even his own illness with a tweet. So we packed our bags, and took off, prepared to bunker down inside - and ended up having a magically wonderful time.
As we passed the flag, on our way back to the city now, we sat in silence. It was an unmissable kind of flag, so we’d all known we’d all seen. “Do you think he’s dead?” I said, in a low tone, breaking the silence. And out came laughter, shrill, joyous, celebratory, surprised laughter. In that moment it seemed possible - that the demagogue would meet a timely, fitting, and ironic end at the hands of a virus he ignored, refuted, and worsened. We’d had a magical weekend, it could have a magical conclusion. “Imagine if we found out from the flag at a dealership!” I exclaimed, between spurts of laughter. “We would have gotten texts or news alerts by now,” said Lauren; “I have service again,” added Eleanor, breaking the spell. But for a glimmer of a moment, as the oversized red and white stripes, the massive stars hung low, it seemed possible, and ever so fitting.
In early November, on a sunny day in a small town, I passed a flag at half-mast again. This one was waving in the breeze above the church in Pescadero; the kind of flag that means small town, municipal building, community gathering spot. “Do you think that has something to do with the election?” I mumbled to myself. After a week of refreshing the electoral map and waiting for ballots to be counted, Eleanor and I had decided to drive south for some artichoke bread and fresh air. And then, early that Saturday morning, Biden had been declared the winner after clinching Pennsylvania. I danced in my room in celebration. With nothing but election on my mind and pure glee about the outcome, the lowered flag was confounding.
After buying our bread, we walked into the gallery by the bakery. The customers at the counter were talking about the election, as everyone was. After some small talk, they asked the store owner, in a hush now: “Is that why the flag is hanging low?” - the same question I had barely vocalized as we’d driven by. “No, no,” the clerk answered, we only lower it for people in the community.” She went on: “The only two exceptions this year were for George Floyd and RGB. I insisted they lower it after George Floyd’s death, not everyone agreed, but in the end it was lowered.” The customers nodded as a kind of approval. “And for Ruth Bader Ginsburg, it wasn’t as hard to convince folks, it was such a sad loss. No, no, it is lowered today for someone in the community, a young woman I knew, unfortunately, who just passed.” More nodding and sighing in acknowledgement and sympathy. We snuck out then, as they were wrapping up their conversation, but I was glad to have an answer to my question. It wasn’t a response to national news then, but to local news.
On January 8th, the flag at the Capitol building was lowered to half-mast. I was sitting at my desk when I saw a photograph. There was no one around to ask an unphrasable question to. The accompanying headline read: “Pelosi Orders Flags to be Flown at Half-Staff; Asks Trump To Do The Same”, or something to that effect. A police officer had died the day before, following Wednesday’s armed and violent raid on the Capitol building by Trump supporters. Trump didn’t die of COVID-19, you knew that. He then lost the election, you knew that, too. He didn’t, though, or claimed not to. And his supporters believed him when he lied and complained about the election and fraud. And they listened when he asked them to contest the counting of electoral votes. And the responded when he egged them on, towards the sitting Congress doing its duty. And now, he had to be asked, publicly, to lower a flag in honor of a slain police officer...
On Wednesday, for the Inauguration, the National Mall will be filled with American flags of all sizes. These flags are intended to represent all those who would have filled the Mall to watch a rightfully elected president sworn into office. These flags also act as a defense, as a protection against a mob or a riot or an attack - by filling the field, they prevent folks from rushing to the stage or the Capitol. These are flags that mean we don’t back down in the face of aggression, we don’t give in to anger, to force, to brutality. These are flags that proclaim that democracy still means something, and democracy still matters - or rather, matters more than ever. I hope the Field of Flags includes flags of all kinds: colorful rainbow Pride flags, somber Black Live Matter flags, among all the blue and red.