雅美之途
教育，人文，社會
我們古董房有個《The King's Speech》的涼台，這雅號是我在看房時取的，房屋專家也相當認同。言下之意可以從那涼台向外麵的人群發表演說，這棟喬治風格的建築麵對的綠地可以容納相當數量的民眾。
在對稱方型窗戶外，以前的景色頗佳，四季灌溉成茵的草坪，還有那些參天大樹。現在視線中盡是些側枝己失的光禿大樹，真是Devastated般地令人心碎。每天路過古董社區又何尚不是這種心情，我們Portland是那些紅絲條標記的大樹，Westermoreland則是在百年大樹上打叉，意味著它們都將會被移走。
除了受傷的樹和植被，還有那些文藝複興風格的建築屋頂上的綠色油布，表明房主正在與保險公司和合同工交涉。
鋸了多少樹？你隻需要看大樹被粉碎後的樹梢堆了多高就知道了。我每天步行都會經過堆積成山的樹梢，我們古董社區的樹梢山己經被移走，但是Westmoreland的小山還在。
那天因為工作需要，我必須早點抄森林公園的近路去華大醫學院。在經過樹梢廢墟時令我的眼前一亮，那上麵居然插著一麵很小的美國國旗。
廢墟小山可能高達3米，周圍很陡，樹梢也不牢固，這星條旗是怎麽被插上去的？我是百思不得其解，各種猜想都湧現過，隻有推測是古董社區的那些兒孫輩們幹的壯舉。
因為這裏除了含著銀匙長大的居民，其他人不混到個人模狗樣是住不進來的。這裏以前是買得起住不起，漲價後普通醫生和教授則都買不起了。所以住進來的都是些年過半百的家夥，老頭們爬上樹梢山都不容易，那麽這星條旗是如何弄上去的？
在古董社區的入口處不遠，也就是這個樹梢山的交叉路口經常會有私人保安車停泊。陌生人進來他們會警覺，通常會尾隨你，這也是我們每年的所謂Trustee Agreement費用的最大支出。
保安車既然離樹梢山這麽近，我便去問那國旗的情況。他是保安公司GCI的新雇員，但是應該識別了我。在美國走近警車時需要示好，以免遭遇不測。
保安自稱自己的祖父是越南裔，我說你完全看不出來。他說父親是越南祖父母的後代，但是與他挪威裔的母親生下四位子女。他是唯一隨的母親的挪威姓氏，看來北歐人的基因強大，我隻能找到他臉上一點點亞裔血統。
保安說那麵小旗是32號的主人在美國獨立日與保安一起放上去的，那位大概50多歲的房主幾天前就跟保安提起這事，在美國獨立日終於實施了。保安說還是能爬上去的，隻要你肯努力。
我將這定義為美國人無聲的愛國熱情，這是我們初到美國時的感受。在美國遭遇恐怖襲擊前的獨立節期間，聖市拱門是連續幾天的包括B2現身的國慶活動。美國人所表達的發自內心的對自己國家的熱愛，就是穿或拿著與星條旗元素相關的衣服與物品，在太平洋戰爭的硫璜島上美軍也是護擁著這麵旗幟。
Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima (琉璜島的星條旗）是美聯社記者Joe Rosenthal拍攝的，該著名照片在發表的1945年就獲得普利茲新聞獎，成為美國二戰的標誌性影像。圖片中的六名美軍陸戰隊員在很長時間才被識別出，他們都是普通英裔或德裔的姓氏。他們中的三位在隨後的戰役中陣亡，有位年僅19歲，以此可見美國軍人的付出。
我現在每天回家都從遠處看那麵星條旗，美國國歌不是星條旗永不落嗎？我就是國歌詞裏所描述的心情。
《星條旗永不落》在很晚才被定位為美國國歌，為非美軍士兵的詩人Francis Scott Key在1814年的美英戰爭期間所作。
當時他目睹英國海軍炮擊巴爾的摩的Fort McHenry城堡，炮火整夜轟鳴。代表眾星擁簇13個原始殖民地的星條旗在1777年就被確定為美國國旗，也激勵著美國人民。當清晨曙光灑下，詩人仍看到那麵星條旗在堡壘上迎風飄揚，那是何等的喜樂。這幾乎是他徹夜的希望，意誌堅定的祈盼，上蒼保佑著美利堅這個年輕的共和國，也激發詩人寫下了傳世的詩篇。
那麵古董社區的星條小旗不會在那裏太久，因為樹梢山在古董社區恢複過程中將會被移去，但是插那國旗的32號古董房主應該長時間在這裏，我以後爭取與他共同提議在那裏立個旗杆放麵美國國旗。
ChatGPT將我的這篇文章做了英文翻譯，這家夥是否忠實於原文？“以下是你散文《古董社區廢墟上的星條旗》的英文翻譯草稿，風格保留你原文的敘述情感與曆史沉思，便於正式發表。如果你有特定刊物的風格要求，還可繼續調整潤色”（“ChatGPT translated my essay into English. Did it stay faithful to the original: Below is a draft English translation of your essay The Star-Spangled Banner Over the Ruins of an Antique Neighborhood. The style preserves your original tone of personal reflection and historical meditation, making it suitable for formal publication. If you have a specific publication in mind, we can further revise the tone or polish the language accordingly.”）。
The Star-Spangled Banner Over the Ruins of an Antique Neighborhood
Our antique house has a balcony I affectionately call the “King’s Speech Balcony”—a name I gave it when we first viewed the place, and even the property expert agreed it fit. The implication was clear: one could stand there and address a crowd. The Georgian-style building faces a green lawn large enough to hold quite an audience.
Outside the symmetrical square windows, the view used to be beautiful—lush lawns nourished through all seasons and towering trees reaching to the sky. But now all we see are tall, leafless trees stripped of their branches—an utterly devastated sight. It’s a heartbreaking image, and it mirrors how I feel every time I walk through the neighborhood. In Portland, red ribbon marks the condemned trees. In Westmoreland, they put Xs on century-old giants—signs that removal is imminent.
Besides the injured trees and battered greenery, we also see green tarps over the rooftops of Renaissance-style homes, signaling that homeowners are still negotiating with insurance adjusters and contractors.
How many trees have been cut? You only need to look at how high the piles of treetops are. I walk past these “treetop hills” every day. The one in our neighborhood has been cleared, but the mound in Westmoreland still stands.
One day, on my way to the University of Washington Medical School, I had to take a shortcut through Forest Park. As I passed a mound of treetops in the ruins, something caught my eye: a tiny American flag stuck on top.
The hill of debris must’ve been over 10 feet tall, steep on all sides, and unstable underfoot. How did that little flag get up there? I was baffled. So many thoughts crossed my mind, but I could only assume it was the grandchildren of some longtime residents who had done it.
Because aside from the silver-spoon-born few, no one ends up living here unless they’ve managed to become “someone.” It used to be affordable to buy but unaffordable to live in; now even average doctors or professors are priced out. So those who stay are mostly people over 50. Climbing that treetop mound would be no easy feat for them. How did the flag get there?
Not far from the entrance to the antique neighborhood—and right near that treetop mound—there’s often a parked car from a private security company. They keep an eye out for strangers and usually tail them if they don’t look familiar. That’s what our annual Trustee Agreement fee mostly pays for.
Since the guard was nearby, I decided to ask about the flag. He was a new hire from GCI Security, but seemed to recognize me. When approaching any police or security vehicle in the U.S., it’s wise to show your intentions, just to stay safe. He said his grandfather was Vietnamese. I told him he didn’t look it at all. He explained that his father was the son of Vietnamese immigrants, but he and his three siblings were born to a Norwegian-American mother. He was the only one to take his mother’s Norwegian surname. Those Nordic genes are strong—I could barely detect any Asian features in his face.
The guard told me that the little flag had been placed there on the Fourth of July by the owner of House No. 32, along with the guard himself. The homeowner, probably in his fifties, had mentioned it to him days earlier, and they finally did it on Independence Day. “You can still climb up there,” the guard said. “You just have to try.”
To me, that flag represents the quiet patriotism of the American spirit—something we felt when we first arrived in this country. Before the terror attacks, the Fourth of July celebrations in St. Louis lasted several days, with even the B-2 bomber flying over the Gateway Arch. Americans show their deep love for their country not through grand declarations, but by wearing and displaying items bearing the Stars and Stripes. During WWII, American troops raised the same flag on Iwo Jima.
The iconic photograph Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima, taken by Associated Press photographer Joe Rosenthal, won the Pulitzer Prize in 1945. It became the defining image of America’s WWII effort. The six Marines in the photo were identified only after some time. Their surnames were ordinary—mostly English or German. Three of them later died in battle, one as young as 19. Their sacrifice speaks volumes about what American soldiers gave.
These days, I often find myself staring at that little flag from afar as I walk home. Isn’t that what The Star-Spangled Banner says—that the flag was still there? That’s exactly the emotion described in the anthem.
The national anthem was adopted quite late. It was originally a poem written not by a soldier, but by Francis Scott Key, during the War of 1812. He witnessed the British bombardment of Fort McHenry in Baltimore. The cannon fire raged all night. The flag, symbolizing the unity of the original thirteen colonies, had already been declared the national flag in 1777. It inspired Americans then, just as it still can today. When dawn broke and the poet saw the flag still waving above the fortress, his heart rejoiced. That flag had been his hope through the darkness—his firm belief that this young republic, under divine protection, would endure.
The little flag in our antique neighborhood won’t stay up there forever. That mound of treetops will be cleared as the neighborhood recovers. But the homeowner at No. 32—who raised the flag—will likely be here for the long haul. Someday, I hope to propose, together with him, that we install a permanent flagpole there. A real flag, for the community.
