“What does it mean to be an American anymore!” a friend groans.

Which gets me wondering – later – in the empty night: “What does it mean to mean?”

Mean is a verb almost too common to gloss. Everybody knows what “mean” means. It means… signify – but what does that mean? Intend? Have in mind? (“Mean” and “mind” share an ancestor, back in the day.) “Mean” contends with “is.” While “is” is kind of a downer – “it is what it is,” we say, not meaning good – “mean” quivers with hope. Who doesn’t want to live a life of “meaning”? “Thanks for this,” we acknowledge a gift, “it means a lot to me.”

There’s no comparable word in Dog. Henry cocks his little head at my inquiry. Dogs never mean. When Henry detects a deer in our field, he does not think about chasing it – whoosh, he’s gone – and the deer too – intention turning action in no time flat. Nor does Henry reflect on the incident, critiquing his deer-dogging style, ruing his lack of success. He does and that’s that – case closed – no second thoughts.

Humans past infancy dwell in multiple realms, which grammar evokes. The indicative mood is here and now, the interrogative questions, the imperative demands, the optative hopes, the subjunctive speculates… Contorting definitions convey the complexity of humans’ wrestle with actuality. Our minds transform is into isn’t, wasn’t, must be, might have been, ought to have been – and each of these concepts vies with the others. “Woulda-shoulda-coulda,” we groan.

When my friend says America used to mean something, he’s harking back to the Star-Spangled Banner, Honest Abe, GI Joe, apple pie, the Marshall Plan, moonshots, laptops, a comforting collage conjuring beneficent intent. Americans, we liked to believe, were “good at heart” though we sometimes erred. Where would the world be without America! Can’t you just hear Hitler chortling!

Today who can bellow they’re proud to be an American? Proud to be a pal to dictators, oppressor of Ukraine, playground of plutocrats, disrupter of the world’s economy, denouncer of science, promoter of pollution, mocker of veterans, Scrooge to the weak and poor? I’m ashamed to be an American! Like the parent of a school shooter, I ache to explain, “It wasn’t my fault,” – only, it was.

How do we recover our shredded self-esteem? How do we make America mean something heartening again?

The idea of goodness fell out of fashion during my span. Goodness came to feel fuddy-duddy, quaint, sentimental, naïve as a Norman Rockwell poster. My generation turned relativists – “good? Says who?” The Nameless One embodies that sneering tradition. Don’t believe a word they say – we’re all being screwed!

If America’s going to “mean” something again, the idea of goodness must stage a comeback. We’ve got to get back to doing what’s right, not just convenient. Public service must become a privilege again, decency and truth our obligation. In 1939, the poet Auden confronted a world similarly down-in-the-mouth. “Intellectual disgrace,” he wrote,

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published Stares from every human face, And the seas of pity lie Locked and frozen in each eye.

His solution? Imaginary. To mend our world, we must mend our minds. “Follow, poet,” he exhorted,

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice;

With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountain start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise.

Together we must make America mean something good again.

And I mean it.