For most of my life, I despised it when anyone called me Betsy. I’d been known to threaten physical violence against any kids that dared to whisper the name in my presence, let alone call me by it. Begrudgingly, I sucked it up when older family members would call me Betsy, but only because of the fact that I had it drummed into me at an early age that I must respect my elders. That respect didn’t stop me from clenching my teeth, though.

I attribute the hatred of the name to a hot day in early July of 1976. The local, now defunct, daily “Standard Observer” paper – bought out later by the “Tribune Review” – sent a photographer to our house with a Betsy Ross costume from a local shop. My mother proudly forced me into the awful thing, sat me down in a rocking chair in our living room, and encouraged me to pose like I was sewing a flag they had placed in my lap. The picture appeared in the paper, and a color print of it sat as a daily reminder to me in my mother’s china closet for years.

Lately, I’ve gotten a little less annoyed with the reference, and even used a graphic with the front of the Betsy Ross House in Philadelphia as part of the background on my blog for a short time. Although I haven’t entirely embraced the name, I no longer have the urge to inflict pain on anyone who chooses to refer to me by it.

Beyond the ambivalent relationship with the name, I’ve been attached to the historical Betsy Ross for most of my life, at least through my relationship with the flag. There are a few “firsts” I’ve accomplished in my life, one directly related to Old Glory.

In the mid-eighties, my father and his friends at the local American Legion post convinced me to participate in the Memorial Day parade as a Girl Scout. I begged and pleaded with many other girls to come with me, but to no avail. So, on the day of the parade, I took a deep breath, and took my place behind the contingent of Cub Scouts and Boy Scouts, and marched – alone – carrying the flag. It was hot, humid, and humiliating, walking there all by myself between a group of boys in tan uniforms and a military vehicle. I heard the jeers and jokes from girls that chose not to join me, but kept my eyes in front of me the entire way, focusing on keeping that flagpole upright.

I was furious with my father, and was generally unbearable for weeks afterward. But a funny thing happened the next year – and every year since. There had never been a single Girl Scout in our Memorial Day parades up until that year I did it alone, but there has been a group of them present every year since. The Girl Scouts even managed to outnumber the Boy Scouts a few times over the years. What started as a joking statement – “Betsy Ross as a Girl Scout must be in our Memorial Day parade carrying the flag – who could be a better flag bearer?” – became the start of something I’m proud to say still stands today. A few Girl Scout leaders today probably still know who I am, and what I did, but it’s never mentioned. Occasionally I’ll get a salute or wink from them as they pass by on the parade route. It’s nice, but just the fact that the girls are there in the first place is enough for me.

It proves the statement, albeit on a small scale, that it truly does take one person to cause change. I keep that memory for myself, along with the other things I changed over the years. It isn’t something I consider I have the right to brag about, but it’s something that I’m proud that I did. And that’s what Flag Day is all about. It is a day to be proud, pure and simple. It is the day to show respect for our past, and rededicate ourselves to improving our future. It is the day to remember what our flag symbolizes, and reacquaint ourselves with how to use it with the respect it deserves. And if you like, it’s the day to take a moment and think of that other Betsy Ross from long ago.