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Saigon fell on April 30, 1975 — the spring of my freshman year in college.

I still remember the shocking images of people desperate to flee, reaching for hands held out from helicopters. You could almost hear the noise in those stark photographs — the pounding of the helicopters' blades, the frantic pleas, the sounds of human misery swirling up and all around in that hot, humid air.

Why do I mention this? Because I came of age during a period in our country's history that didn't exactly inspire the type of flag-waving patriotism my parents or my grandparents felt. I grew up watching protests and race riots on the 6 o'clock news. I read and heard stories about our disastrous war effort in Southeast Asia. I followed the Watergate scandal, which led to the resignation of a disgraced president who defiantly flashed the victory sign like Winston Churchill from the doorway of a helicopter.

All of this led to a certain ambivalence in people my age about what it meant to be an American.

I was thinking about this because of two experiences I've had during the month of March. The first was a trip to Washington, D.C., where we visited that city's monuments after dark. Impressive by day, those familiar memorials take on a supernatural, almost sacred air by night — stone shrines to a nation's best hopes and dreams.

"With malice toward none; with charity for all."

"We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all men are created equal."

"We shall overcome because the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice."

"The test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have more; it is whether we provide enough for those who have too little."

I was especially moved by the Korean War Veterans Memorial with its life-size statues of soldiers rising up from the ground. Korea was my father's war, and I thought of him in those days, so young and so far away from the people who loved him best.

The second experience occurred much closer to home — at my neighborhood caucus meeting. I spent a lot of it standing in line with my friend Ceri. Outside. In the snow. Together we caucused with the people in front of us and the people behind us. One of them — a guy — was wearing flip-flops.

"Dude," I told him. "I'm worried about your toes."

Seriously, the line to get inside the school went on forever — sort of like the line for Space Mountain at Disneyland, only without the FASTPASSES. Or if there were FASTPASSES available, no one told me and Ceri about them.

But in spite of the cold, the crowd's mood was buoyant and generous. Someone even handed the guy wearing flip-flops a pair of socks. People were excited to be there, to have their voices heard, to feel like their presence might actually matter in a presidential election. It was like the set of a Frank Capra movie and you know what? It was awesome.

It occurred to me as I looked at the caucus line snaking down the street and around the corner that over the years my attitude has shifted. When people bemoan the demise of America I want to say yes, we have problems. Huge ones. And during an election cycle those problems naturally receive a lion's share of the attention. That's how candidates get elected, by promising to fix things.

But here's what makes this country special. We keep trying over and over again to get it right. We really do.

Nobody needs to make America great again. It already is.

Ann Cannon can be reached at acannon@sltrib.com or facebook.com/anncannontrib.