It wasn’t just the flag. It was what it symbolized for me. I’d hung it up the day I moved in, not to make a statement, but to make the place feel like home. A new street, unfamiliar neighbors, a whole new chapter in life. I was the outsider. Everyone knew it. No one said anything, but you can always feel that.
So, when I stepped outside and saw the flagpole bare, with only the little plastic clip swaying in the wind, a strange knot twisted in my chest. Anger? Maybe. But mostly, I felt… disappointed. Like I’d lost something more than just fabric.
I didn’t mention it to anyone.
But the next morning, under my doormat, I found a scrap of notebook paper. Torn edges. Scribbled handwriting. It read:
“I SAW KIDS STEAL YOUR U.S. FLAG.
I KNOW YOU’RE THE ONLY WHITE GUY IN THIS AREA.
WE’RE NOT ALL THE SAME.
USE THIS TO BUY A NEW FLAG.
—NEIGHBORS”
And taped to the note? A crisp $20 bill.
I sat there on my stoop for a long time, just holding that paper, unsure how to feel. Grateful? Humbled? Seen?
When I finally walked to the corner store to get a new flag, the cashier handed me my change and a small folded note tucked inside the receipt. No name. Just another message.⬇️