The Photo Issue: The Real Americana

Photographs by Brian Branch-Price, Vanessa Charlot, Chris Cook, Hector Emanuel, Shuran Huang, Tailyr Irvine, Yunghi Kim, Joshua Lott, Amy Sacka, Jamel Shabazz and Andre Wagner

Introduction by Robin Givhan

In Andre Wagner’s single image of a Black child gripping a small, wrinkled American flag in one hand while the other rests pensively on her chin, Wagner tells the complicated story of America. That Star-Spangled Banner is crumpled, as if it has been rolled up in a pocket, tucked away, its usefulness uncertain but nonetheless protected. This child, with the decorative beads in her cornrows, is dwarfed by the adults who stand on either side, by the enormous backpack, by the meat counter in the background. Her expression is sober, as if she’s considering weighty matters. A child with the brooding demeanor of an adult. A complicated child. An American child. A Black American.

The symbolism of this country relays the story of our national identity not always as it truly is, but as we would like it to be. Americana, the souvenirs and totems, memorialize the beautiful myths that we tell ourselves about how the Republic came to be and how we define our relationships with our fellow citizens.

The archetypal American cowboy with his broad-brimmed hat, his saucer-size belt buckles, his dungarees and boots evokes the openness of the West and the raw individualism that we value. Similarly, our muscle cars and hot rods recall the halcyon days of our industrial might, as well as machismo and the glorious freedom to cut loose, burn rubber and race into the horizon. And our baseball diamonds — where this slow, meandering, tedious game plays out — offer a picturesque setting for long stretches of conviviality in the outdoors in big cities and small towns from coast to coast. We call it a national pastime even if it’s a poor reflection of America’s demographics, both on the field and in the stands.

These tableaus are meant to stand for the American spirit, in a quaint, unified way. And throughout the flag waves high. It’s a symbol of our patriotism. Of our ambition. Of our history. But in this century it has become difficult to view the flag with untainted wonder and admiration. The flag is fraught; it can be frightening. The more ominous associations may disappear on the Fourth of July, when it decorates board shorts and beach towels, but they become part of the very fabric again on those days before and after, when “real” Americans fly oversize ones from towering flagpoles in the middle of their considerable acreage, when folks pair it with a rebel flag and call it a celebration of Southern roots, when the aggrieved wrap themselves in it at a political rally fueled by anger and vitriol, when insurrectionists use the flag to battle their way into the U.S. Capitol.

MAGA Republicans, right-wing extremists, white nationalists have all laid claim to the flag to represent their version of America. They’ve planted it on their toxic soil, where they foment lies, disinformation and hate. They’ve managed to muscle Old Glory away from too many of their fellow citizens — sometimes without much of a fight.

<p text="The liberals, the Black folks, the women always seem to be talking about leaving the country. They muse about decamping to Canada; they root through their family history in search of an ancestor whose name they could drop to gain citizenship in Ireland, Italy or perhaps Britain. They listen soberly as Ghana promotes its “year of return,” and they dream of going back to the West African nation — even if that’s not at all where they came from. They’re leaving in anger, fear or disappointment over an election or a legal ruling or some terrible act of violence. America has failed them, and so they wonder if they must go, before it’s too late, before the country stops arcing toward justice and is simply lost.” class=”wpds-c-hcZlgz wpds-c-hcZlgz-bkfjoi-font-georgia wpds-c-hcZlgz-jDmrXh-width-mdCenter wpds-c-hcZlgz-iVstQh-css mw-md pb-md font–article-body font-copy ma-auto pl-sm pr-sm”>The liberals, the Black folks, the women always seem to be talking about leaving the country. They muse about decamping to Canada; they root through their family history in search of an ancestor whose name they could drop to gain citizenship in Ireland, Italy or perhaps Britain. They listen soberly as Ghana promotes its “year of return,” and they dream of going back to the West African nation — even if that’s not at all where they came from. They’re leaving in anger, fear or disappointment over an election or a legal ruling or some terrible act of violence. America has failed them, and so they wonder if they must go, before it’s too late, before the country stops arcing toward justice and is simply lost.

[The Case for Leaving America to Escape Racism]

But for the mostly White men and some White women who have signed on to the MAGA belief system, their ownership of this country is ferocious. If they feel that the tenor of the country is not to their liking, they vow to take control. They are not leaving. Sometimes, they arm themselves with guns and go to their state capitol in anger and Second Amendment bravado. And they hoist the American flag high. They literally wrap themselves in it, turning it into armor and salve.

Their interpretation of the flag isn’t as a symbol of people striving, evolving, learning. It’s a sacred cloth. It’s nonnegotiable. But for so many others, the flag is a living distillation of America. It can be rebuked and challenged for its failures; and doing so is a sign of commitment to this country. Their devotion and pride in America are fierce. The patriotism runs deep and against all odds. Because it isn’t always wrapped in the flag, it often goes unnoticed.

In these pages are pictures of men and women who have not given up on America and its potential. They are rooted in some of this country’s rockiest soil, and even if they don’t flourish there, they survive. They find joy; they create beauty. They glide on roller skates through a downtown street in a reborn Detroit as if they are in a private reverie. They wave from a parade, dance at a house party or sit astride a horse. Each picture is a reminder of the subjects’ unrelenting grip on America.

The Black cowboys photographed by Brian Branch-Price are so evocative of the mythology of this land. They face his camera in their fringed jackets, plaid shirts, their jeans and hats. One holds a long gun. They look content and proud. They are the essence of the American bootstrapper. The Black cowboys cherish and respect the land, even if this country too often disrespected their story. To see the flag draped around a Black girl’s slender waist or serving as a monumental backdrop for a child’s portrait is to see hope come alive. These pictures are not a revelation. They are natural, effortless and true. They are real Americans.

The subjects in these photographs are rarely doing anything exceptional, which is a relief. Too often, Black and Brown people must be in the midst of some exceptional moment — scoring a game-winning touchdown, performing before a stadium-size crowd — to be noticed. These people are participating in the quotidian life of America with delight and dignity. Even in the worst of circumstances, we see everyday Americans pressing on in the belief that tomorrow just might be a little better, a bit more just. They have faith in America’s promise. And they’re holding the country to it.