Washington Post contributor, children's book author
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It’s an existential question: Can an American be shy?
We used to mess with modesty. We used to admit mistakes. We took our lumps. Those days are done.
Our pride is permanent fanfare now.
Exceptional. Enshrined.
Embodied in a prating President, and cranked up extra loud.
Those who hear us have to be convinced. We’re first in the world, we claim — and we believe. The more we thump our chest the more we like the sound: Our kids. Our family. Our flag.
I know I’m good. We are the best. USA rules.
To be American, these days, is to pound on a drum. Bim, bam, bang. Our king-of-the-jungle beat.
My kid did this. Now, hear me roar.
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We’ve got a national vibe: a steady vamp of self-esteem. It’s only natural to crow. Is this a sign of health? Our pumping heart? Psychologists, or some at least, say yes.
So, up with us.
We win. We dominate. We rule.
Modesty has died. You hadn’t noticed? Its quiet nature made it marginal. It caught a cold. It stayed in bed. Our fireworks and gunshots killed it off.
The thing we once called manners is sounding quaint. A seersucker suit. A hat tip. A part of the time when people worried about being rude. About becoming — can you remember? — a bore.
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The “aw, shucks” heroes who bowed their heads. They’re pushing daisies. Sent to the dugout to sit by Sweet Lou Gehrig. Lost the election along with Silent Cal. All gone.
So now we’re healthy braggarts. Want to see our selfies? Check out our website. Buy our self-published book.
Others’ gains are easy to forget. We’re not in public a lot, and when we are we’re in our stickered cars:
I Love My Honor Student. I Heart My SUV. Alumni of Princeton Onboard.
Think this is a stretch? Let me tell you: I am confident it’s right. This blog is key. The argument acute. The writing is stylish, sublime.
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I know I’m good. Don’t bother me with flak. My colors do not run.
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