For Veterans Day 1964, around my 10th birthday, the VFW sponsored an essay contest, “What Patriotism Means to Me.” Any elementary or junior high student in our town could enter.

My family didn’t have much disposable income, so whenever there was a chance to participate in a free activity, I did.

I won.

My mother was incredibly proud of me. The afternoon of the evening that I was to read my essay in the gymnatorium, she brought me to the hairdresser’s. This was unheard of in my family. Every couple of months, our dad cut our bangs as evenly as he could, but always too short. My sister or I would burst out crying. Too ugly.

The hairdresser washed my hair. I can still feel the hard plastic curve of the sink on the back of my neck. Then she cut it shoulder-length and rolled it up in curlers. I sat under the dryer with her checking the dampness of my hair. When she took the rollers out, she styled my hair in a bob and Mom took a red bow from her purse and clipped it to one side of my hair. When had she bought this?

The essay is nowhere to be found, but I am reasonably sure that I spoke of both the rights and the responsibilities of being a citizen of the United States. That’s how we were being raised. As that American citizen, you had the right to become anything you wanted, but, you also had the responsibility of earning that place, of being the best person you could be to both yourself and others.

The day before the Nov. 5 election, I turned 70. On my birthday, indeed, for the rest of the week until Veterans Day, my husband and I were to be in Québec. We had mailed in our ballots; it was our right and our responsibility. I had been cautiously optimistic. Surely, it was time for a woman to be president. Surely, after years of his lack of civility and empathy, Donald Trump would be gone from our lives.

He won.

Driving home, from Vieux Québec to the Vermont border, I thought of how my optimism had turned to dread and grief. When the customs/border protection agent said, “Welcome home,” I gave him a weak smile. What would become of our home? Trump flags still dotted the Vermont countryside, most regularly, alongside houses where I’m sure the money could have been better spent.

Somewhere along our drive through Vermont to Massachusetts, I thought of that essay contest, “What Patriotism Means to Me.” It still meant rights and responsibilities to me. I thought of blind allegiance and how during the Vietnam War, “Love it or leave it” was lobbed at protesters. I thought of how I felt that Trump and MAGA had hijacked our American flag.

Again, blind allegiance but, this time, to Trump, not our country. We have an American flag and, if we were at home, this Veterans Day, we would have put it out first thing this morning.

Yes, fly your flag, but also defend your fellow citizens’ right to burn it. America is strong enough to take it. I always believed that. But, now, staring out the car window, I’m not so sure of our strength. I picture an old photo from 1940, “The Crying Frenchman.” The pain of an occupied people etched in his face.

Were we to be soon occupied, not by a foreign force, but by our own will, handing over all of our power, all those rights and responsibilities we had as Americans to another demonic force?

Barbara A. Rouillard of Springfield is an award-winning writer with over 85 publishing credits. A public high school teacher for over 31 years, she retired in 2015. Ms. Rouillard is fluent in French and a politically active member of her community.