Happy Birthday America...

I never met either of my paternal grandparents. Both were long deceased by the time I came along. But I do know that they were both immigrants to this wonderful country. My grandfather Joseph, lied about his age and stowed away aboard a freighter and wound up outside of Philadelphia. My grandmother and her family all came here together and wound up in South Philly. My mom's father was born on the boat on the way here from the Ukraine. My mom's mother was the only one of my grandparents born on US soil, but even that only by a year or two. Her parents emigrated from England and Holland not many years before she was born.

My maternal grandfather was a SeaBee in WWII in the Pacific Theater. I have a picture of him as a very young man, posing with to fellow sailors in New Guinea around 1942.

Maybe that's where I get it from...my love for this country. My heritage is found in countries not nearly as wonderful or blessed as this one. Not that those nations aren't wonderful themselves...but they aren't America. I've heard the stories -some first hand and some second hand-- about the hardships they faced and how much this country meant to them. Among my grandparents, on either side, there was not a handout to be found. Not a government gift or a social program freebie. They came with nothing, they worked hard, and they became parents, business people and homeowners. They weren't perfect, by any means. They were rough, somewhat uneducated because of their standing in society, maybe rough around the edges. They were also hard working, people of Faith, good neighbors, good citizens, good people.

And they were AMERICANS.

From what I understand, my grandfather didn't bother teaching Italian to his children. Because they were "Medicones." Not that they didn't pick it up along the way, but his first command to them was that they were Americans and would behave like Americans.

They were proud of who they had been, but far more proud of who they were. Americans.

I've always been a history buff and always an unabashed Yankee Doodle Dandy. But as I've gotten older, and more worn by the years, (and hopefully wiser) I am even more so. I didn't know about my Italian heritage until I was 21 and didn't meet my family until 2007 at age 43. There was a period, when that was new and exciting, where I was self-hyphenating. I was Italian American or American Italian, depending on how you divvy up the whole percentages thing. But in the last eight or ten years I stopped doing that. I am fiercely proud of my Italian heritage and especially of my family and our story. The longer I've known my cousins and siblings the more I've grown to really love them, and I hope they feel that way about me. I'm LUCKY to be a Daliessio.

But I'm far luckier still -blessed by God in fact-- to be an American. My heritage on either side takes a backseat to my citizenship and birthright as an American.

As years pass I've grown more and more sentimental, more unashamedly patriotic, more fiercely loyal and protective of this land of mine. There are place in this world I want to visit...but none as much as the wonderful places inside our own borders. I want to go to my grandfather's hometown of Montecassino someday. But probably not until I have seen more of OUR mountains. Or met more of my fellow Americans. Instead of backpacking across Europe, I dream of traveling this country, without a roadmap or an itinerary, and just see what is out there.

If it were possible, I would find the center of this great land...the place where her heart is...and fall on that sacred ground and pull her to my chest. I love her that much. She has given me and my family everything...by giving us nothing more than a chance. 242 years ago, 56 great men closed out this day by signing a document that got this all rolling. Their signatures almost invariably guaranteed their own personal ruin. Less than a third of them would survive the Revolution with their fortunes, or their lives, intact. But that was a sacrifice they were willing to make for the sake of the promise that this new country held. If The United States of America could take root. If she could survive. Then the promise of her founding would be there for the children and grandchildren of these noble men, and that was enough for them to risk it all.

I just can't look at a sacrifice like that and simply go on about my day. I owe them. I owe them diligence and vigilance. I owe them my best, to keep this nation always functioning at IT'S best. I owe them my best efforts at being a great AMERICAN citizen, a great neighbor, a great friend, and a great patriot.

I'm trying. Every day.

Happy Birthday America.

God Bless you still

The Night Before America

"I wonder what they thought, those 56 amazing men. Those 56 men who literally valued this nation over their own lives and fortunes. Who loved freedom more than wealth, comfort, success or personal gain.

I wonder what July 3, 1776 felt like for them. I wonder if they prayed a little harder, tossed and turned, or wept. I wonder if they walked softly into their children's rooms that night, and thought; "Dear God...what am I about to undertake?"

I wonder if they lay awake all night, waiting for the dawn and wondering if it would ever come. I wonder what sort of images raced through their minds.

The next sunrise would bring the day of decision. They had spent two whole days crafting this beautiful, brilliant declaration, telling King George -in the most respectful, sacred, unbending way imaginable-- that they answered to Someone far more noble, and far more feared and honored than he. That they owed it to God Himself to take this stand, because these rights that George was crushing, did not come from George. He had been granted custodian over them by right of his nobility. They came from God. God had entrusted their care to George, and George was misappropriating that trust.

So these men...these 56 giants of wisdom, Faith, and humility, chose -on behalf of a nation-- to trust God more than their King. And in so doing, to give birth to a nation unlike any other before or since.

I wonder how far down that road they could see? Beyond the inevitable war with Britain. Beyond the unavoidable growing pains. Beyond the doubt of the naysayers and the wailing of the mothers whose sons would surely be laid waste on battlefields yet to be determined, in the name of this document they had just crafted.

That night in July, on the evening before the first day of The United States of America, all this was still to come. All our greatness, all our achievement, all our progress, and invention, and exploration, and all our losses. Our brightest days, and our darkest nights were all still to come.

Because tomorrow...they would finish this task and sign this document and the great tale of America would begin.

...Tomorrow"

Exceptional Independence

It’s Sunday morning as I write this. Tuesday is the Fourth of July, our Independence Day. I was thinking about it this morning. Thinking about how much I love that day. I think, other than Christmas, it’s my favorite holiday. I love this country. I love it so much it brings me to tears sometimes. Tears of pride and of love mostly. Tears of pain and sadness once in a while. Only the things you love can bring out your emotions. And I love this country.

I love our history, and I love our uniqueness. I love that we are exceptional. For those unaware of what “American Exceptionalism” means (Including our prior president, Mr. Obama) I’ll explain. It doesn’t mean we think we are “exceptional” the way I think my daughter is exceptional. All citizens think that of their countries. At least most do. Citizens of despots probably don’t, although most despots cut their citizens off from the world at large so they wouldn’t know how anyone else lives anyway. 

American Exceptionalism doesn’t mean we think we’re better than any other country. It means we know we are unique. We do it differently. We have since July 4, 1776. We chose a different form of government. We have a different attitude. We value things that other nations don’t, and we disavow ourselves of systems and traditions that other nations adhere to. 

We’re The Exception. That’s how we like it. We treasure hard work and grit, and determination. We feel shame if we put even the slightest dent in that fierce independent streak we inherited from the signers of that document in Philadelphia.

We want to do it our way, because we’re confident that our way is best. Every craftsman, every doctor, every actor, every musician, every schoolteacher…none of us want to inherit some government job that removes the possibility of failure, and the risk of achievement. We want to rise or fall based solely on the strength of our work ethic, the volume of our blood, sweat, and tears, and the quality of our work. 

I work for a college in the IT department. As a side business, I also build decks. I’ve had decks in magazines. I could easily just slap together another square deck that looks like a boat dock -well-built though it may be- but I choose to create beautiful structures that stand out from all the rest. I build every deck as if it were going in my own yard. I sign my name to my work. I choose to be the exception. That's America.

We’ve been a nation for 240 years now. In that time, we’ve fought two world wars, eliminated slavery, (while literally tearing ourselves apart and then healing our own soul) lost presidents to assassination, death in office, and resignation. We elected a black man with a Muslim name, only 7 years after the biggest attack on our soil…by Muslims. (Proving that we are far too forgiving, and far too kind hearted. But we DO learn from our mistakes)

We tend to “Americanize” things. We have to. We’re the exception. Things that are just fine in Europe, won’t stand up to scrutiny here without some tweaking. To quote my favorite comedian, the late, great, Richard Jeni: “The French might have studied exactly how many flaky layers it takes to make the perfect croissant, but only the Americans could improve it by stuffing two pieces of ham and some processed cheese in it, and serving it through a drive-thru window in two minutes!”

He’s right. 

We drive to work and eat in our car. We work late. We don’t take afternoon siestas and late morning brunches. We grind and hustle. For the money? Perhaps. For the recognition? Maybe. The real reason is because it’s who we are. It’s pride. It’s our soul. When the photographer for the “Garden Lifestyles” magazine first approached me twenty years ago to photograph one of my decks, it wasn’t because I had sent him some pictures or promoted myself in any way. It was because I was building a deck for his next-door neighbor and he saw my work and was blown away. I didn’t even know who he was or what he did. I did the job as I always do it, and someone noticed. 

That’s America!  Contrary to popular belief…we AREN’T the Kardashians. We’re the Waltons. We’re The Sopranos, without the crime. 

We’re Exceptional.

Tuesday marks our 240th year. Our birthday. These last eight years I had my doubts that there would be another. I wrote as much on several occasions. Our previous president had us on the brink of ruin for almost his entire eight-year reign of terror. He was our personal King George. He mocked us and denied our representation. If we disagreed with him he held us out as racist. As if we elected this black man, just to have someone to hate. He destroyed the environment for business growth, tried to disable our dreams and crush our drive and ambition. He mocked those of us who started businesses and built lives on our own. He fiddled as Rome burned and then peed on the smoldering ashes. I believe, he intended to break us forever. He hates this exceptionalism we possess and he wanted to reduce us to “just-another-nation” status. 

But we ended that dream of his. Because we’re still exceptional. 

We didn’t lay down and drink the poison he offered. The poison of laziness, and government dependency, and mediocrity. We refused to believe we were no longer exceptional. No longer special. No longer God-blessed and God-centered. He wanted us to be less. The President of the United States, wanted his own nation to be something less. Just writing those words makes me furious. My president, whom I certainly didn’t vote for but who’s office I still respected, wanted my country to fail.

I was thinking about this as I thought about my grandparents. They were all immigrants except for my maternal grandmother, and even she was born here to immigrant parents. I don’t find my roots in aristocracy. I find them in Exceptionalism. I find them in Americanism.

My grandfather Joe, (Giuseppe) faked the age on his birth certificate and stowed away on a freighter from the port of Gaetti, near his hometown of Montecassino, Italy. He came here at 15. All alone. By the time he was done, he’d married, raised 13 kids, built his own house and his own business, and made his own way. He was an exception.

My father, Giuseppe’s son, just one generation off the boat, earned his Ed.D. A fifteen-year-old immigrant stowaway, has a son who gets a doctorate. Because we’re exceptional.

My grandmother grew up in South Philly, next door to a handsome young man with a beautiful voice, the son of immigrants. His name was Alfred Cocozza, but the world knew him as Mario Lanza. He was just a kid from South Philly, but he had dreams and talent and he worked, and he became the exception.

Our men have died defending this nation. Their families never turned against us, even as they grieved so great a sacrifice for an increasingly unappreciative community. Others have carried wounds from battle and silently went on with life, shrugging their shoulders at the respect and awe we hold them in. Because they are exceptional.

We invented cures for diseases, and put men on the moon. Because we simply couldn’t sit back and wait for some other nation…some older, more established country, to get there first.

Because we’re the exception.

We don’t want to be part of some globalist view. We don’t believe in “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood” on a worldwide scale. We’re Us. You’re them. Let’s be best friends, but not adopted family. We like you, but we don’t want to be you.

We’re the exception.

We admire those who speak multiple languages. But we speak English.

We love travel and exotic locations. But our favorite place is our backyard, a grill, some friends from the block we live on, and that glorious flag waving in the breeze.

We’re the exception.

That’s who we are.

This Independence Day, for the first time since 2009, we have a President who is, himself, the exception. He's a patriot. Rough, vocal, passionate, often coloring outside the lines. He stood out from a crowd of political robots to put down the threat of Hillary Clinton and give us the chance to save ourselves. We voted for him because he wasn’t like the rest.

He was exceptional.

We are exceptional.

I don’t know how they celebrate Bastille Day, or Cambodia day or whatever the rest of the nations on earth do on their anniversary.

But Americans never forget what we are, who we defeated and why.

We’re exceptional.

God Bless America.