Pride is supposed to be a mortal sin, akin to shooting a bald eagle or using a page from the ol' King James to roll a cigarette. I met a man recently who was clearly not afraid of death--he was filled up to his eyebrows with pride. Specifically, pride for his country, which is America. America is my country, too. Though, I believe the most patriotic thing I've ever done is buy a carton of Lucky Strike Cigarettes, or maybe vote on legislation to legalize the sale of alcohol on Sundays. Sundays used to be the Lord's Day, but not anymore! They belong to the gun-toting, beer-buying citizens of South Carolina, now. That's progress.

The man I met, the one with pride up to his eyebrows, was invisible. Or rather, he wanted to be--he was wearing camo overalls with a hat to match. The hat had thick white stitching that read, "Proud to be an American" with a blue and green trout on the front. The bill was pressed low on his forehead, coming to rest right on his eyebrows. We were in line at the courthouse, paying parking tickets. We've got a lot of freedom in this country, which is America, but not enough to be allowed to park within twenty-five feet of a stop sign. Well, you learn to take the good with the bad.

The cognitive dissonance of proud Americans has always struck me as comical on its best day, depressing on its worst. The near invisible gentleman in front of me was paying a parking infraction at the South Carolina courthouse, which up until a few years ago, flew a Confederate flag from its eaves, everyday. He was paying with five-dollar bills. For those unacquainted with the cotton-paper fiat of America, Abraham Lincoln (a noted hater of the Confederacy) adorns the five-dollar bill.

He is known as the Great Emancipator, ending slavery in America, frighteningly, only one-hundred-sixty years ago. He is a shining light in America's mostly dark and embarrassing history. I suppose he is someone to be proud of, one good American. John Wilkes Booth was an American, too. He shot Lincoln's top hat clean off at a playhouse. Well, you learn to take the good with the bad.

One more note on American currency: Andrew Jackson is the face of the twenty-dollar bill. He is worth four Abraham Lincolns, or two-thousand if we're using pennies. A man worth four times as much as the Great Emancipator must be pretty special, and he was certainly a man of many talents. He was, at times, a prolific general, a state judge, a successful farm owner, and eventually, seventh president of a young United States. He was also responsible for the Indian Removal Act, which is about as morally bankrupt as it sounds. By the end of his life he owned over a hundred slaves. A portrait of him hangs in the same courthouse where citizens pay for parking tickets, a point of American pride in a gilded frame.

Eventually, the camo wearing protagonist disappeared into the wilderness after settling up with the city. I paid my ticket with a check. It's easier on my brain that way, no presidents stare back at you from a check. Soon after, I walked down the court steps outside to my car, parked more than twenty-five feet from any stop sign, and drove to Osprey's Bar. I bought a beer from the visible bartender, he wore a red shirt, no camo, though an eight-point buck's head hung on the wall behind him. I drank deep from that draft, feeling cold and refreshed, and paid with a five-dollar bill--the Great Emancipator, indeed.

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C.W. Bryan is the author of two collections of poetry. His debut chapbook Celine: An Elegy was published with Bottlecap Press in 2023. His first full-length collection, No Bird Lives in my Heart is forthcoming with In Case of Emergency Press in 2024. He is currently writing with Sam Kilkenny at poetryispretentious.com.