Several years ago, I was annoyed by the extreme degree of patriotism on display in the central part of our state: Freedom Festivals, Colonial Heritage Reenactments, Stadiums of Fire, and Founding Father-themed charter schools. I tried to suppress my grouchiness (knowing that my attitude might be perceived as unAmerican), but I was finally pushed over the edge when I attended our fourth Hope of America Pageant (for our last 5 th grader) in the BYU Marriott Center.
A perfect storm of factors triggered my patriotism overload that night: crushing crowds, flags everywhere, the surreal snapshot of 50 dancing grannies doing synchronized splits in star-spangled mini-skirts, and the deafening roar of three thousand off-tune tweens in sunglasses punching the air while bellowing Orrin Hatch’s cool-dude anthem, “America Rocks!”
My wife saw some warning signs: gradually fewer cynical jokes, the shift to whimpering and whispered requests for an early departure, and then, finally, a disturbing silence. As the show wrapped up, she could tell from the glazed look in my eyes that I’d suffered a complete mental breakdown. I was led to our car like a confused and exhausted toddler.
After several weeks of bed rest, though, I recovered nicely and was a changed man. At my lowest point, I had an epiphany: “If you can’t beat them, join them—and maybe even outdo them.” Since that day, my patriotism has known few bounds. Consider some of my subsequent contributions to Utah’s celebration of all things American:
Surpassing Orrin Hatch, I’ve recorded my own album of ultra-hip, updated anthems for young people. In my version, “America Alternative Rocks!” “America Freestyle Raps! (though, admittedly, not very well),” “America Techno Ambient Dubs (that’s a type of dance music, I think)” “America Hip Hops! (ok, awkwardly),” and “America Industrial Death Metals!” When I tested out the choreography for that last song at the local grade school, there were a lot of frustrated tears, pulled muscles, and upset parents. It’s a work in progress, though—we’ll get there.
Riding the popularity of clean improv, sketch, and stand up in Utah, I’ve started my own comedy club called “Studio P” that will feature routines that are not only squeaky clean, but also, only patriotic. So far, I’m the lone comedian ready to perform—and my family have heard these jokes too many times to laugh as hard as they normally would. I’m still feeling confident, though, about my routine. Here’s a sample: “Did you hear the joke about the liberty bell? It’ll crack you up…” Or… “What would the Beastie Boys sing if they lived during the Revolutionary War? You gotta fight for your right to Pour-Tea!” (Get it? Like “Par-tyyy”?) And then this zinger: “Why are there no knock-knock jokes about America? Because Freedom Rings.” That got my biggest laugh to date.
As a new grandfather, I’ve also decided to participate in future pageants with my own inspiring dancing troupe: “The Inflexible but still Hyper-patriotic Grandpas.” None of us can do the splits—let alone touch our toes—but we’re practicing some squatting and dabbing moves in our skin-tight George Washington and Ben Franklin costumes that should get crowds stoked.
I’m also creating my own charter school that will remind young people of the values this country was built upon. Going even deeper in time to celebrate our heritage, I draw inspiration from Jamestown. The curriculum will explore “the virtues of indentured servitude,” “creative ways to link minor illnesses to the Wrath of God,” and “how to engage in ‘friendly’ negotiations with your neighbors when you move into a new area.”
And yes, I’m creating my own alternative to the Osmond’s “Stadium of Fire!” But in keeping with trends towards cleaner air and renewable energy, I’m calling it the “Stadium of Natural Gas!” I toyed with “Stadium of Wind Turbines!” or “Stadium of Solar Panels!” but neither seemed quite right.
I’ll also make the celebration less partisan by moving away from the traditional choice of conservative hosts like Sean Hannity, Glenn Beck and Chuck Norris. After wracking my brain, though, the only figure I could identify who is universally beloved by all political persuasions was Baby Yoda. Luckily, he’s available. (Apologies in advance to any sympathizers with the old Galactic Empire or the First Order out there.) Anyway, as Baby Yoda might say (if he could talk), “Come, everyone should; awesome, it will be…”
Finally, my version of Utah Valley’s yearly Freedom Festival will be more woke and inclusive. Sure, we’ll celebrate the Founding Fathers, but we’ll also pay tribute to Founding Mothers, Founding Immigrant Aunts and Uncles, and heck—even Founding InVitro Surrogate Godparents. Our colonial era reenactments will also invite local Native American tribes to participate. Finally, in posters, prayers and songs we’ll politely ask God to bless not only Utah and America, but also the entire human family. That’s a lot of people, I know—more than you could fit into our “Stadium of Nuclear Fission!”—but as unapologetically pro-American as I’ve become, I still don’t want to leave anyone out. As Baby Yoda would say, “Somewhat exclusive and sad, that would be.”
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