I'm from Oklahoma. Read: Scotland

I had the honor and privilege of attending a swearing-in ceremony for 1303 new citizens of the United States of America yesterday.

I sat in the balcony of Oakland's Paramount Theatre, an Art Deco icon.  The Art Deco Style is defined by eclecticism, a perfect metaphor for a melting pot.  Families and friends of the imminent citizens from 105 countries surrounded me along with gilded curtains and walls, sweeping images of man and nature. 

We watched a video about Ellis Island.  I saw the face of my great great grandfather on the screen.  Or someone who looked just like him.  Like most American citizens, I descended from immigrants. 

We sang the National Anthem together with tears streaming down our faces.  We put hands on our hearts and pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.

We heard a man from US Citizenship & Immigration Services speak seven languages with ease.  I marveled at his facility, but the young woman seated next to me said, "I think this should all be in English.  They're becoming American citizens, after all."

I thought about my great great grandfather and wondered what resistance he encountered in New York and Missouri.  And my great great grandmother, and my great grandpa.  When those people who got here first looked at my family, did they see human beings?

Many years ago, I took in a stray kitten.  Tiny, filthy, and on the verge of becoming ferrel, she had been taunted and battered by the young boys living in the apartment below mine.  After weeks of coaxing, she finally allowed me to lift her into my arms.  Shuddering with fear, she clung to me as we ascended to my apartment.  She lived with me for 16 years.  Lulu. 

In Lulu's 13th year, a wet, ragged, and desperate kitten found its way to the crawl space under my house.  Of course I took her in, if only for a few days to find her a new home.  To my surprise, Lulu didn't just resent the new kitty, she actively stalked her and attacked her at every opportunity.  "You don't belong here!" she seemed to be saying.  "Go back where you came from!  This is my house."

I guess Lulu forgot her own history.

OJ at the Smithsonian

I haven't heard back from the Smithsonian yet.  I sent them a clarifying question:  How do you determine which artifacts to acquire and display?

'Cause I was wondering about O.J. Simpson's suit.  What in blue blazes makes my beloved Smithsonian Institution want that?

There's a clear reason, I'm sure.  My beloved, my esteemed Smithsonian doesn't go around like a drunken lotto winner buying up stuff because "wouldn't it be cool?"  (My brother bought a hearse once.  It was pretty cool.  We had fun driving around thumbing our noses for a while.)  But the Smithsonian has a good reason...just, what is it?

I was thinking of the "Trial of the Century" angle.  So while I'm waiting for them to clear this up, I did some research on famous trials. 

OJ's not the only murdering SOB who generated a media dominating courtroom escapade.  Charles Manson, Scott Peterson...but don't they all belong in Madam Toussaud's Wax Museum exhibit of the macabre?  Surely not the Smithsonian.

There's a difference between dictionaries, in case you didn't know.  Some are dictionaries of Standard American English.  Others are dictionaries of common American usage.  The former shows us the best, what we should strive for.  The latter simply shows us what is. 

I thought the Smithsonian would display the Standard, the highest achievements, the proudest moments.  Yes, American history and culture aren't totally comprised of nobility and glory.  We have to know who we've been and where we've failed.

But OJ Simpson?

All right, I watched the trial.  I watched.  I might watch it again someday like I might watch the "mystery" of Marilyn Monroe's death, or Helter Skelter.  On MSNBC Investigates.  On E! Most Shocking Celebrity Crimes.  I'm not above it. 

But the Smithsonian is.