Patriotism

Musical Silence

There is something wonderfully paradoxical about being a musician. You spend two, three, sometimes four hours giving every ounce of yourself away, and yet when it’s over, you’re somehow more energized than when you began. I just pulled into my driveway after tonight’s show in Fort Collins, grateful, exhausted, and, as always, unable to sleep. Every musician knows that peculiar post-show electricity. The body is tired, but the mind is sprinting. Adrenaline has no interest in clocks, and creativity doesn’t simply shut off because the last note has been played. It lingers. It echoes. It keeps asking questions long after the applause has faded.

Tonight, as always, I found myself thanking the universe for allowing me, at this stage of my life, to still climb behind a drum kit and do the thing I have loved for more than five decades. Chronic pain may accompany me everywhere else, but for those few precious hours, whether it’s a two-hour set, a three-hour marathon, or the glorious insanity of four hours, and every working musician knows the difference between a three-hour and a four-hour gig… everything, I disappear into the music. It becomes almost surgical. Every rhythm is another careful incision. Every subtle dynamic another delicate stitch. I’m no longer thinking about pain, politics, or the relentless noise of the world. I’m simply inside the music, taking it apart, rebuilding it, finding that magical place where musicians stop playing notes and begin having conversations without saying a single word.

The drive home from Fort Collins to my little mountain home in Arvada usually takes about an hour and ten minutes. Somewhere along the way, my phone died, leaving me with nothing but the dark highway, the hum of the tires beneath me, and the uninterrupted company of my own thoughts. In a world addicted to notifications, algorithms, and endless distraction, there is something profoundly cleansing about silence. It leaves nowhere to hide from yourself. Silence Speaks.

As I drove through the Colorado night, I passed one American flag after another, proudly illuminated against the darkness, and I found myself asking a question that has occupied far too much of my thinking these past several years. What does patriotism actually mean? Not performative patriotism. Not the kind wrapped in campaign merchandise, oversized flags, military cosplay, or personality cults. Not patriotism measured by how loudly someone shouts, how many slogans they repeat, or how enthusiastically they pledge allegiance to one man. Real patriotism asks infinitely more of us than that.

To me, patriotism has never been about idol worship. It has never been about elevating one politician above the Constitution, one billionaire above working people, or one ego above an entire nation. Patriotism is the quiet understanding that this country belongs equally to every American, regardless of political affiliation, race, religion, orientation, or birthplace. It demands that we defend democratic institutions even when they inconvenience us, tell the truth even when it costs us, and remember that public service is exactly that, service. It requires compassion before cruelty, integrity before power, and humanity before profit.

Donald Trump has spent years confusing loyalty to himself with loyalty to the nation, turning public office into personal branding and transforming America’s 250th anniversary into yet another monument to his own reflection. That’s not patriotism. A president should disappear into the office, allowing the people to become the story. Instead, Trump has demanded that the office disappear into him. The presidency was never intended to become a mirror reflecting one man’s vanity. It was meant to be a window through which the American people could see the very best of themselves.

The older I become, the more convinced I am that patriotism isn’t measured by how tightly you clutch a flag. It’s measured by how fiercely you defend the ideals that flag is supposed to represent. Democracy. Inclusion. Accountability. Justice. Compassion. The courage to tell the truth when lies become fashionable. The willingness to stand with the vulnerable when doing so isn’t popular. The understanding that no leader, no matter how powerful, is ever bigger than the nation itself.

So tonight, after another evening of making music with friends, after another reminder that art still has the power to unite complete strangers for a few fleeting hours, I arrived home feeling grateful. Grateful that music still gives me hope. Grateful that I still believe this country is worth fighting for. Grateful that millions of Americans still understand the difference between loving their country and worshipping a politician.

To every American who understands that patriotism is rooted in conscience rather than cults, in service rather than self-interest, in democracy rather than domination, I wish you and your families a meaningful and peaceful Fourth of July. May we never confuse love of country with loyalty to one man, and may we continue striving toward an America worthy not only of its own people, but of the respect of the global community watching us from beyond our shores.

— Michael Jochum

Not Just a Drummer: Reflections on Art, Politics, Dogs, and the Human Condition