The flag had nothing to do with anything.
It was about what it meant for me. Not to make a statement, but to feel a bit more like home, I had hung it out front the day I moved in. New street, new neighbors, new stuff all around. I was the outcast. Everyone was aware of it. No one mentioned it, but you can sense that sort of stuff.
Seeing the pole empty outdoors with only the tiny plastic clip fluttering in the breeze made me feel strange knot in my chest. Anger, of course. But basically just… let down. Like I had lost more than cloth.
I didn’t even tell anyone about it.
The next morning, though, I discovered a sheet of notebook paper behind my doormat. Ripped edges. Kind of sloppy, handwritten. It claimed:
I SAW KIDS TAKE YOUR U.S. FLAG.
You are the only white male in this region.
Not everyone is like.
GET A NEW FLAG USING THIS.
NEIGHBORS
And stuck to the message?
A sharp twenty.
With that paper in my hands, I sat on the doorstep for a long time, not even knowing what to feel. Thankful. Humble. Observed.
When I eventually walked to the corner store to buy a replacement flag, the salesperson gave me something with the receipt—folded tiny, no name on it.
One more note.
This one said: “Don’t trust too quick. Not everyone is good.
The handwriting was nearly furious, tighter than the prior note. Staring at it made my stomach turn. What was its significance? Was someone either warning me or toying with me? I could not say. But I chose to keep it to myself—for the time being.
The next several days went rather quietly. Feeling both pride and anxiety, I raised the new flag. During the day, the neighborhood appeared typical enough—children playing basketball down the block, people walking their dogs—but at night, everything felt different. Where they shouldn’t, shadows shifted; outside my house, automobile lights hung around too long.
Then arrived Thursday night. Sitting by the window reading, I heard footsteps crunching down the gravel driveway. Looking through the slats, I noticed an older guy standing there, his silhouette defined by the low porch light. Under one arm he carried a toolbox and his flannel shirt was patched at the elbows.
He knocked quietly before shouting out, “Hey, neighbor! You back?
I slowly opened the door. Sure, hello. May I assist you?
He grinned amiably. My name is Walter. Moved into 412 last week. I figured I’d say hello. He looked at the flagpole. “Good touch, that flag. Adds some life to the location.
We talked for a while; he said he used to be a carpenter and would fix anything in the house should I require assistance. I appreciated him and said I would use him up one day since something about him seemed real. But he paused as he turned to go.
He inquired nonchalantly, “You hear a lot of trouble ’round here?”
“Not really,” I said falsely. Then, following a break, I said, “Why?”
Walter shrugged his shoulders. Just wondering. People occasionally converse. Some claim that late-night events occur. Mostly children. Petty thefts, vandalism. Nothing significant, but still… makes you anxious.
Long after he departed, his remarks lingered with me. Who were these children? Were they the same ones who stole my flag? And why would someone tell me not to believe others when some actually went over and above to demonstrate compassion?
Saturday came, and I chose to mow the grass—a little act to indicate I valued maintaining order. Halfway through, I saw a boy across the street sitting on the sidewalk, observing me. With ragged hair and footwear two sizes too large, he seemed perhaps twelve. He turned away fast as our eyes met.
Once the yard work was done, I took a couple of water bottles from inside and strolled over. “Hey,” I said, extending one out. Would you like this? It’s warm outside.
The boy first hesitated before nodding hesitantly. Thank you.
May I ask your name? I inquired.
“Darius,” he said, turning the bottle cap off.
Darius, I’m Ben. Been here a few weeks. Still working things out.
He looked at me first, then toward the flagpole. You angry about the flag?
I felt a pang of anxiety. Did you see who got it?
Darius averted eye contact and shrugged once more. “Perhaps.”
“Look,” I continued softly, “if you know something, you may tell me. No condemnation.
At first, I believed he might totally shut up. Then he let out a sigh. Jamal and Tyrell were responsible. They didn’t intend anything by it. Just stupid child things.
Where is it at present? I pushed.
Jamal’s garage. He finds it amusing.
I tried to understand this by gently nodding. All right. I appreciate your telling me.
I pondered what to do that evening. Part of me wanted to march over to Jamal’s house and demand answers. Another part questioned whether facing them would merely aggravate matters. Ultimately, I chose to compose another note—this one for all three boys—and slipped it under Jamal’s door alongside the second anonymous message I had gotten.
“Dear Jamal, Tyrell, and whoever else: Bring the flag back tomorrow if you want to show you’re better than this.” Should you not, I will get it. Regardless, we live next to each other and I wish we could resolve this issue jointly.
-Ben
Steady and gray, Sunday morning brought rain. I got up thinking nothing would change. Sipping coffee near the window, though, I noticed outside movement. Three people ran across the yard, leaving something attached to the bottom of the flagpole before vanishing into the fog.
My old flag was nicely folded, wrapped in plastic to shield it from the rain when I went out to check. Above was another note in infantile scrawl:
Apologies for our blunder. We will not do that again.
-Jamal, Tyrell, & Darius
I shook my head and chuckled against my better judgment. Children. Always catching you off guard.
Walter came by uninvited later that afternoon. “Heard you had quite the adventure,” he remarked, grinning. News travels quickly.
How did you find out? I inquired.
“Oh, let’s just say I have my sources.” He gave a wink. Well, at least it turned out. At times, forgiveness surpasses retribution.
Walking away made me see how correct he was. This entire event had been about connection, not vengeance or justice. About knowing one another, warts and all.
Months later, the area seems less strange. Darius waves every time he sees me; Jamal’s mother once asked me over for supper. The even the secret letters appear less enigmatic now; I think Walter was involved, pushing me toward patience and compassion.
Ultimately, the lesson was straightforward: People are not always what they appear to be. Some will astonish you with compassion; others with wickedness. Most will rise to meet it if you give them a chance.
Life Lesson: Trust is earned, not blind. Sometimes, the finest approach to create bridges is to show elegance.
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