On a bookshelf in my cluttered office is a small, hardcover book I was given in third grade. The well-worn book nestled in between my many Dick, Jane, and Sally tomes is titled “I Am An American.”

The mission of the book, as explained by the author Olive W. Burt, was “to start children out from the very first with the knowledge that this country has something different and unique and worth fighting for, something to brag about.”

Of course, in our history books of the 1960s, America was perfect; the greatest nation in the world, and the embodiment of democracy, freedom, and technological progress.

Our values never changed.

Unlike other school books we read from, this book was brand new when I got it in 1963. The pages were still crisp with firm, uncreased edges, and the spine was still stiff when opening it.

The book was new, but the ideas were as old as our country.

That fall, my teacher, Mrs Patton, a large battle-axe of a woman, decided we were to each memorize a page from the book and recite it to the class with our parents in attendance. Painfully shy, I panicked at the thought.

On a Friday in December, dressed in a brand new plaid jumper, I nervously stood in front of the class.

My blonde hair may have been Breck shining clean, but my cheeks burned red as I recited the passage I had chosen from the book. For weeks, I practiced with my mother, discussing the ideas they told, memorizing these words that would be seared into me for the rest of my life.

As I stood and recited this important passage, the flag hung behind me. A glossy black and white photograph of President John F. Kennedy was displayed next to it. It had only been two weeks since our young president had been assassinated. Our sense of ourselves as Americans had been shaken.

But I knew these words of what it meant to be an American were true.  I looked out among my classmates and saw my mother smiling at me.

Suddenly, my voice was strong because I knew I was speaking about something profound.

“I Am an American

I am glad I am an American

I am proud of my birthright, but humble too.

And being an American

These things I must do:

I must speak the truth as I see the truth;

I must play by the rules that are fair.

I must not laugh at another’s ways,

Or take more than is my share.

I must do no thing that will cause me shame.

I must walk tall and brave and free,

And I must help others to have

The rights that mean so much to me.”

From my earliest memory, there was the belief that Americans had the means to conquer poverty, disease, and ignorance. It was our moral obligation to take care of those in need. To welcome others to our shore. We were a generous people, a helping people. It was instilled in us that modern science and technology had made the American people the best educated and informed in history. As a result of these best of times, the fullest achievement of America’s values and ideals was possible.

These core American values became my values.

Now, a rotten-to-the-core group of men and women has infiltrated our government, destroying our system.

I spent every morning for the next dozen years standing tall next to my school desk with my right hand over my heart, pledging allegiance to a country that promised liberty and justice for all. We may not have realized our ideals fully, but we always moved to correct them.

My hand grew, as did the country. I watched it change, stumble at times, and grow. It’s what I expected of America. That was American Exceptionalism to me – our ability to constantly move forward, help those in need, expand our knowledge, and right our wrongs.

We would always strive to do better.

These core American values became my values.

That America is gone….

I am an American.

And for the first time, I am ashamed.