In 1972, my mother wore a red, white, and blue flag design long-sleeved shirt to the Democratic National Convention. A housewife and mother, struggling to find her own identity as well as a future for her five daughters, she ran as a delegate for Shirley Chisholm. Chisholm was the first black woman to run for President, and though she didn't win enough delegates to gain a serious place at the negotiation table in the party, her race for the white house made a seismic shift, both in racial and gender political realm. My mother chose the shirt as a statement in the middle of the Vietnam War that, though a divided country, the flag belonged to every American, to every opinion, to every voice.
I was 2 years old when my mother wore her American flag shirt. I remember growing up in the whirling energy of those times, when things were happening so quickly and tangibly, and each American was part of something important and big.
Now I am nearly the same age my mother was, and my daughter is 2 years old. This summer and fall, I wore that same flag shirt each time I went to a political rally or to work to register voters.
