I started thinking about the stripes as furrowed fields and the red as blood that had been spilled in those fields to build a country, death for others’ wealth, food that didn’t go on their tables, in their bellies. And the white seemed the whitewashed history, as if this country and all of us who have benefitted from the slave labor of generations, as if we were clean and pure. The white was a lie. Unfinished and deeply broken. Can you look at those stars without seeing rows of graves?