My dad was born into a family of sharecroppers on a white plantation in Greenwood, Miss., where black people bent over cotton from can’t-see-in-the-morning to can’t-see-at-night, just as their enslaved ancestors had done not long before. At the edge of our lawn, high on an aluminum pole, soared the flag, which my dad would replace as soon as it showed the slightest tatter. Our corner lot, which had been redlined by the federal government, was along the river that divided the black side from the white side of our Iowa town. The blue paint on our two-story house was perennially chipping the fence, or the rail by the stairs, or the front door, existed in a perpetual state of disrepair, but that flag always flew pristine.
My dad always flew an American flag in our front yard.
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