At Times I Hate The National Anthem
I get strong feelings whenever I hear the national anthem. They’re both personal and political. To me, the song evokes a solemness, a remembrance, a celebration, and a unity. I’ve been to dozens of events and heard numerous variations and compositions, from mariachi to electric bass. It’s a massive song that often feels larger than whatever moment it’s within, and it’s that grandness of scale that allows us to stare into it and see reflected within it what we want to see. I get misty every time I hear it.
Charlie hates the anthem. We attend at least a dozen sporting events every year and the anthem is always one of those awkward public autism meltdown moments where I’m never really sure what to do. For some reason, Charlie hates when people sing. While he loves music, a person standing in the same room as him singing anything causes him to overstimulate. When it’s thousands of people all gathered together singing en masse he becomes physically distressed. Sometimes it’s not so bad. Other times it’s as though somebody is teasing his skin with a blowtorch.
While it’s only momentary, and he’s able to relax shortly after, in the minute in which he’s screaming and flailing his arms we get a lot of angry looks from the people around us. Charlie is only 5 but he could easily pass for a much older child, certainly one old enough to understand the need to stand, place hand over heart, and remain silent. Such a simple task that the glares we receive from the people around us seem to implore sparing the rod just for this one moment.
Ironically, it was during “Autism Awareness Night” at Angels Stadium that I had the worst anthem-related confrontation. Charlie was wound up before the song even began. I knew this would be a particularly difficult meltdown so out of respect for our seat neighbors and his well-being I decided to take him out to the fan shop so he could experience silence.
A security guard in the tunnel physically blocked my attempt to remove Charlie as the anthem began. “We’re doing the anthem,” He said, and nodded toward the flag like some drill instructor issuing an order. As I attempted to walk past he extended his arm into our path. “Disrespectful” somebody muttered in the small crowd that gathered to watch the commotion the guard had caused.
“He has autism and needs some quiet space,” I responded, plowing past the guard toward the exit, weeping Charlie in tow.
This is one of the few times where I’ve verbalized Charlie’s diagnosis in front of him. I hate having to do it. Having to make him feel different. The whole point of taking my son to a sporting event is that we indulge in normal activities even though we’re not a normal family. Charlie has fun just relaxing and taking the game in. I can put one arm around him and another around my wife and life is good.
But then the anthem begins and suddenly we’re on the receiving end of judgment, of expectation, of projection. What the song means to others becomes our cross to bare, regardless of our circumstances. If we can’t rise to those expectations we’re bad parents, bad role models, lousy Americans.
I have strong feelings surrounding the national anthem. I get misty whenever I hear it. But sometimes I really hate what it brings out of people.
Author’s Note: Angels Stadium has, by far, the nicest and most helpful staff of any sporting venue I’ve been to. They are extremely accommodating. Please don’t judge the staff of this venue based upon a very isolated incident.
