Narrative:

The other day I heard someone say, "You know, America is in real trouble."

It's true. Old Glory has never fallen so close to the earth . Our

embassies are being stoned. Our diplomats are often in fear for their

lives. And we're involved in a half-dozen nameless, winless conflicts

spilling American blood on foreign soil. Our young men are dying for

ideals that don't seem to mean too much to Americans anymore.



The truth is America's real trouble doesn't lie in the rice paddies of

Vietnam, in the masses of Red China, or in the diabolical intrigues to the

south of us. The real trouble lies in the playgrounds of St. Louis, the

hillside mansions of San Francisco, and in the slums of Chicago. A disease

which is slowly eating away at the heart of America lives in the small

southern towns, the fishing villages of New England, and in the hot dusty

streets of the midwest.



This is the age of the American cynic. The year of the unbeliever. The day

of doubt. We've killed all the sacred cows and destroyed all the images.

And there's nothing left to respect. Old fashioned love of God, country,

and family is passe. We stare at our shoelaces when they play the national

anthem. We wouldn't want to be seen at a political rally or a town hall

meeting. And we don't want to be caught with our eyes closed during public

prayers. We've decided the only way to get into public office is to buy

it. Our heroes are the fast guys who get away with things. Patriotism, the

old hand-over-the-heart, flag-waving singing patriotism has been

condemned. Think about this. Patriotism. When you tear away the fancy

phrases and crepe paper, it's plain and simple pride. It's a new

car-prettier girl-bigger house sort of pride in country. Somewhere along

the way we've lost it. Our form of government is the same. We still say

America stands for the same things. But next time you're at a party, ask

someone to sing "American the Beautiful", and see what happens.



The basic ideals and structure of America haven't changed. We have. You

and me. Our enemies know it. They've seen the newsreels of the

discontented marching around the capitol. They've distorted and blown up

our mistakes. They've been putting steel wedges in the cracks in our wall

of solidarity. The new idea is: Don't attack America; wear it down

gradually; it'll eventually fall under the weight of its own corruption.

And did you know, it's working?



This sneering complacency, once stamped out by the bloody feet of a

tattered Continental Army in 1776, once drowned beneath the keel of the

U.S.S. Arizona in Pearl Harbor Bay, has risen again. This deadly "Let

George do it" attitude lights the way for the Viet Cong in the swampy

jungles of Vietnam. This "Better red than dead" cancer is more feared by

the American soldier than all the communist mortar shells. It kills the

vitality and spirit of America. Democracy is a frail and fragile

instrument. Made of hope, prayer, and Yankee ingenuity. It is held

together by a fourth-of-July flag-waving patriotism. And we've almost

exhausted our supply of it. Try this test. Lift your eyes to a flag, then

sing out as loud as you can that old out-worn antiquated freedom hymn you

learned so many years ago:



For purple mountain majesties (for purple mountain majesties)

Above the fruited plain (above the fruited plain)

America (America)

America (America)

God shed His grace on thee (God shed His grace on thee)



Now if you feel a little pride welling up inside of you, if you feel a

little mist in your eye, then, thank God for you, mister, you're still an

American!



(America, America,

God shed His grace on thee

And crown thy good with brotherhood

From sea to shining sea)