我们古董房有个《The King's Speech》的凉台，这雅号是我在看房时取的，房屋专家也相当认同。言下之意可以从那凉台向外面的人群发表演说，这栋乔治风格的建筑面对的绿地可以容纳相当数量的民众。
在对称方型窗户外，以前的景色颇佳，四季灌溉成茵的草坪，还有那些参天大树。现在视线中尽是些侧枝己失的光秃大树，真是Devastated般地令人心碎。每天路过古董社区又何尚不是这种心情，我们Portland是那些红丝条标记的大树，Westermoreland则是在百年大树上打叉，意味着它们都将会被移走。
除了受伤的树和植被，还有那些文艺复兴风格的建筑屋顶上的绿色油布，表明房主正在与保险公司和合同工交涉。
锯了多少树？你只需要看大树被粉碎后的树梢堆了多高就知道了。我每天步行都会经过堆积成山的树梢，我们古董社区的树梢山己经被移走，但是Westmoreland的小山还在。
那天因为工作需要，我必须早点抄森林公园的近路去华大医学院。在经过树梢废墟时令我的眼前一亮，那上面居然插着一面很小的美国国旗。
废墟小山可能高达3米，周围很陡，树梢也不牢固，这星条旗是怎么被插上去的？我是百思不得其解，各种猜想都涌现过，只有推测是古董社区的那些儿孙辈们干的壮举。
因为这里除了含着银匙长大的居民，其他人不混到个人模狗样是住不进来的。这里以前是买得起住不起，涨价后普通医生和教授则都买不起了。所以住进来的都是些年过半百的家伙，老头们爬上树梢山都不容易，那么这星条旗是如何弄上去的？
在古董社区的入口处不远，也就是这个树梢山的交叉路口经常会有私人保安车停泊。陌生人进来他们会警觉，通常会尾随你，这也是我们每年的所谓Trustee Agreement费用的最大支出。
保安车既然离树梢山这么近，我便去问那国旗的情况。他是保安公司GCI的新雇员，但是应该识别了我。在美国走近警车时需要示好，以免遭遇不测。
保安自称自己的祖父是越南裔，我说你完全看不出来。他说父亲是越南祖父母的后代，但是与他挪威裔的母亲生下四位子女。他是唯一随的母亲的挪威姓氏，看来北欧人的基因强大，我只能找到他脸上一点点亚裔血统。
保安说那面小旗是32号的主人在美国独立日与保安一起放上去的，那位大概50多岁的房主几天前就跟保安提起这事，在美国独立日终于实施了。保安说还是能爬上去的，只要你肯努力。
我将这定义为美国人无声的爱国热情，这是我们初到美国时的感受。在美国遭遇恐怖袭击前的独立节期间，圣市拱门是连续几天的包括B2现身的国庆活动。美国人所表达的发自内心的对自己国家的热爱，就是穿或拿着与星条旗元素相关的衣服与物品，在太平洋战争的硫璜岛上美军也是护拥着这面旗帜。
Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima (琉璜岛的星条旗）是美联社记者Joe Rosenthal拍摄的，该著名照片在发表的1945年就获得普利兹新闻奖，成为美国二战的标志性影像。图片中的六名美军陆战队员在很长时间才被识别出，他们都是普通英裔或德裔的姓氏。他们中的三位在随后的战役中阵亡，有位年仅19岁，以此可见美国军人的付出。
我现在每天回家都从远处看那面星条旗，美国国歌不是星条旗永不落吗？我就是国歌词里所描述的心情。
《星条旗永不落》在很晚才被定位为美国国歌，为非美军士兵的诗人Francis Scott Key在1814年的美英战争期间所作。
当时他目睹英国海军炮击巴尔的摩的Fort McHenry城堡，炮火整夜轰鸣。代表众星拥簇13个原始殖民地的星条旗在1777年就被确定为美国国旗，也激励着美国人民。当清晨曙光洒下，诗人仍看到那面星条旗在堡垒上迎风飘扬，那是何等的喜乐。这几乎是他彻夜的希望，意志坚定的祈盼，上苍保佑着美利坚这个年轻的共和国，也激发诗人写下了传世的诗篇。
那面古董社区的星条小旗不会在那里太久，因为树梢山在古董社区恢复过程中将会被移去，但是插那国旗的32号古董房主应该长时间在这里，我以后争取与他共同提议在那里立个旗杆放面美国国旗。
ChatGPT将我的这篇文章做了英文翻译，这家伙是否忠实于原文？“以下是你散文《古董社区废墟上的星条旗》的英文翻译草稿，风格保留你原文的叙述情感与历史沉思，便于正式发表。如果你有特定刊物的风格要求，还可继续调整润色”（“ChatGPT translated my essay into English. Did it stay faithful to the original: Below is a draft English translation of your essay The Star-Spangled Banner Over the Ruins of an Antique Neighborhood. The style preserves your original tone of personal reflection and historical meditation, making it suitable for formal publication. If you have a specific publication in mind, we can further revise the tone or polish the language accordingly.”）。
The Star-Spangled Banner Over the Ruins of an Antique Neighborhood
Our antique house has a balcony I affectionately call the “King’s Speech Balcony”—a name I gave it when we first viewed the place, and even the property expert agreed it fit. The implication was clear: one could stand there and address a crowd. The Georgian-style building faces a green lawn large enough to hold quite an audience.
Outside the symmetrical square windows, the view used to be beautiful—lush lawns nourished through all seasons and towering trees reaching to the sky. But now all we see are tall, leafless trees stripped of their branches—an utterly devastated sight. It’s a heartbreaking image, and it mirrors how I feel every time I walk through the neighborhood. In Portland, red ribbon marks the condemned trees. In Westmoreland, they put Xs on century-old giants—signs that removal is imminent.
Besides the injured trees and battered greenery, we also see green tarps over the rooftops of Renaissance-style homes, signaling that homeowners are still negotiating with insurance adjusters and contractors.
How many trees have been cut? You only need to look at how high the piles of treetops are. I walk past these “treetop hills” every day. The one in our neighborhood has been cleared, but the mound in Westmoreland still stands.
One day, on my way to the University of Washington Medical School, I had to take a shortcut through Forest Park. As I passed a mound of treetops in the ruins, something caught my eye: a tiny American flag stuck on top.
The hill of debris must’ve been over 10 feet tall, steep on all sides, and unstable underfoot. How did that little flag get up there? I was baffled. So many thoughts crossed my mind, but I could only assume it was the grandchildren of some longtime residents who had done it.
Because aside from the silver-spoon-born few, no one ends up living here unless they’ve managed to become “someone.” It used to be affordable to buy but unaffordable to live in; now even average doctors or professors are priced out. So those who stay are mostly people over 50. Climbing that treetop mound would be no easy feat for them. How did the flag get there?
Not far from the entrance to the antique neighborhood—and right near that treetop mound—there’s often a parked car from a private security company. They keep an eye out for strangers and usually tail them if they don’t look familiar. That’s what our annual Trustee Agreement fee mostly pays for.
Since the guard was nearby, I decided to ask about the flag. He was a new hire from GCI Security, but seemed to recognize me. When approaching any police or security vehicle in the U.S., it’s wise to show your intentions, just to stay safe. He said his grandfather was Vietnamese. I told him he didn’t look it at all. He explained that his father was the son of Vietnamese immigrants, but he and his three siblings were born to a Norwegian-American mother. He was the only one to take his mother’s Norwegian surname. Those Nordic genes are strong—I could barely detect any Asian features in his face.
The guard told me that the little flag had been placed there on the Fourth of July by the owner of House No. 32, along with the guard himself. The homeowner, probably in his fifties, had mentioned it to him days earlier, and they finally did it on Independence Day. “You can still climb up there,” the guard said. “You just have to try.”
To me, that flag represents the quiet patriotism of the American spirit—something we felt when we first arrived in this country. Before the terror attacks, the Fourth of July celebrations in St. Louis lasted several days, with even the B-2 bomber flying over the Gateway Arch. Americans show their deep love for their country not through grand declarations, but by wearing and displaying items bearing the Stars and Stripes. During WWII, American troops raised the same flag on Iwo Jima.
The iconic photograph Raising the Flag on Iwo Jima, taken by Associated Press photographer Joe Rosenthal, won the Pulitzer Prize in 1945. It became the defining image of America’s WWII effort. The six Marines in the photo were identified only after some time. Their surnames were ordinary—mostly English or German. Three of them later died in battle, one as young as 19. Their sacrifice speaks volumes about what American soldiers gave.
These days, I often find myself staring at that little flag from afar as I walk home. Isn’t that what The Star-Spangled Banner says—that the flag was still there? That’s exactly the emotion described in the anthem.
The national anthem was adopted quite late. It was originally a poem written not by a soldier, but by Francis Scott Key, during the War of 1812. He witnessed the British bombardment of Fort McHenry in Baltimore. The cannon fire raged all night. The flag, symbolizing the unity of the original thirteen colonies, had already been declared the national flag in 1777. It inspired Americans then, just as it still can today. When dawn broke and the poet saw the flag still waving above the fortress, his heart rejoiced. That flag had been his hope through the darkness—his firm belief that this young republic, under divine protection, would endure.
The little flag in our antique neighborhood won’t stay up there forever. That mound of treetops will be cleared as the neighborhood recovers. But the homeowner at No. 32—who raised the flag—will likely be here for the long haul. Someday, I hope to propose, together with him, that we install a permanent flagpole there. A real flag, for the community.
