Youmans is currently working on a memoir titled “Wise Cracker: A Good Girl in the Deep South.” She has authored two acclaimed poetry collections, “Lyla Dore” and “Dirt Eaters,” and serves as a professor in the MFA program at the University of Nebraska at Omaha.
In 2017, I traveled to Plains, Georgia, with my two teenage children from Jacksonville, Florida, to attend a Sunday school class taught by former President Jimmy Carter at Maranatha Baptist Church.
My son, Gibson, requested this trip to mark his 17th birthday. A passionate supporter of Carter, he had recently written a history paper on Carter’s administration and the emergence of arch-conservatism. We were all unsettled by the tone of Donald Trump’s inaugural address that January.
On a picturesque Saturday, we roamed Plains, visiting significant locations such as Carter’s childhood home, his peanut farm, his brother Billy’s gas station, and the train depot that served as his campaign headquarters in 1975. We took family photos at the Carter visitor center, located in the high school where the future President and First Lady studied. We admired Carter’s Nobel Peace Prize and even sat at a replica of his Oval Office desk. As we explored the exhibits, I was transported back to 1976.
I was just ten years old in Jacksonville that year when the American Bicentennial enveloped the nation, impacting everything from television shows to fashion. Our Avon lady sold themed perfumes and soaps, while I eagerly collected Stars and Stripes stickers from cereal boxes.
It felt like a nationwide celebration, and I was fully engaged. My mother would say I was happiest when every day felt like a parade, and that year, it truly did.
I was an earnest child, celebrating the Bicentennial by learning military hymns, memorizing the Gettysburg Address, and organizing variety shows in our carport. My best friend portrayed Thomas Jefferson while I took on the role of Ben Franklin, awkwardly squeezing into knee socks to mimic breeches. What amazed me most was my neighborhood friends actually showed up and didn’t mock us.
I was particularly proud of the four poems I crafted to honor our country’s birthday, which won me the northeast Florida Girl Scouts regional talent show. The competition included a girl playing “One Tin Soldier” on the flute and another performing a karate routine to “Kung Fu Fighting.”
However, it wasn’t just the Bicentennial that stirred my spirit of patriotism.
A peanut farmer from Georgia, the same state as my father’s family for centuries, was running for President.
Jimmy Carter’s appeal extended beyond his familiar drawl. He spoke with calm confidence and an approachable intelligence, which made me feel an inexplicable pride, as if he and his family were distant, well-off relatives.
That year, I envisioned scenarios where I would meet him, hoping that if his campaign stopped in Jacksonville, my family could host him for an evening. I imagined bonding with his daughter Amy over board games, eventually leading to sleepovers at the White House.
I was disappointed when my father chose not to vote for Carter. However, I decided to vote for him in our fifth-grade class election, which marked my first rebellion against my dad. Interestingly, he did express relief at seeing a Southern man represented on TV without the usual caricature.
I can’t pinpoint when my perception of patriotism shifted dramatically.
In 1979, I felt it change when conservative Christians began forming powerful voting blocs. The 1994 “Republican Revolution” and Newt Gingrich’s “Contract for America” amplified this change, and by 2009, the rise of the Tea Party against Obama made it clear that the Republican Party had taken over the term “patriotism,” aligning it closely with a certain brand of Christianity.
By January 6, 2021, I felt that patriotism could never return to its previous meaning. Instead of unity, it became a source of anger and a desire for control.
Yet, during that visit to Plains in 2017, it was impossible not to feel a sense of nostalgic patriotism. It was a day filled with hope, echoing President Carter’s words about nurturing a fresh faith in our dreams.
The following day, as I sat with my children in church while Jimmy taught us, and later posed for photos with him and Rosalynn, my inner ten-year-old beamed as if it were 1976 again. I pondered whether someone with values like his could ever become President once more.
Now, years later, I recall that trip because in the recent speeches by Kamala Harris and Tim Walz, I detect resonances of the same ideals Carter championed—that the government’s true test lies in how well it serves those in need. Moreover, with Uncle Jimmy preparing to celebrate his 100th birthday, I am reminded of the enduring impact of goodness in the world.
I find myself filled with renewed faith in that dream, which now feels refreshingly relevant.