I’ve been at my parents’ abode in Virginia, now, for a week or so, and I’ve made an interesting observation about license plates. Many of the automobiles in this northern region of Virginia sport a bright yellow plate bearing a coiled snake and the words “Don’t tread on me.” I find it somewhat humorous and ironic that even the harmless compact cars, hardly large enough to transport the typical middle-aged American male, also adorn their bumpers with these threatening pieces of metal.
According to the immortal, all-wise Wikipedia, the emblem on these plates and the corresponding slogan were first designed by American general and politician Christopher Gadsden in 1775 during the American Revolution. Benjamin Franklin thought, for a variety of logical reasons, that the snake was an appropriate symbol of the American spirit—one reason being that the snake never initiates a fight, but strikes only when provoked. I wonder if, were he were alive today, Franklin would not find it necessary to adjust his views.
Unless I’m badly mistaken and grossly uninformed about the general intelligence quotient of our postmodern society, I would be humorously surprised if most of the individuals displaying this historic emblem would have the slightest inkling of its connection to the past. But, perhaps, society knows its history better than I.
I can think of a number of other likely reasons for the popularity of this yellow plate—the first being that it’s popular. If cool dude number one has a yellow plate on his bumper, then cool dude number two (who doesn’t think it expedient to be behind the times) quickly secures one of his own. Now we have two cool dudes with yellow plates. The rest of society, whether it thinks itself cool or not, rushes to adorn its own bumpers with yellow plates, because somehow it perceived that somebody with formidable sunglasses and judicious swagger put one on his. The color of the plate may, or may not, have impacted the choice of cool dude number one.
For a young generation that’s been bombarded and persistently pestered with overbearing parents, absent fathers, stressed out superstars, abominable advertising, suffocating social media, and bewildering world news, the last thing they want is somebody to step on them and squeeze out the last breath. Maybe that’s another reason for the yellow plate. Its message—don’t touch me, don’t hit me, don’t invade my space—is a feeble and pitiful plea for respite, for a break from the chaos. Maybe people find the inundation of information and the depressing deluge of life to be too much. Maybe Facebook, with all its glorious self-portraits, has made people so tired of people that they cry for uninvaded personal space. Don’t tread on me; I’m so tired of people that I just might bite your head off.
Beneath this cry to be left alone is, perhaps, a deep, seething anger. As the number of school shootings continues to rise, I think this becomes more and more evident. Somebody doesn’t go into a school and slaughter his fellow humans because he loves God, people, or his pet gerbil. No, he does it out of hatred. He does it because he hates life and despairs of it. He does not kill people for the fun of it. Go into the grocery store and observe how parents relate to their children. A cursory and uninformed observation would indicate that parents care about as much for their children as they care for a cricket in their coffee. No small wonder, then, that these brats lash out later in life. Don’t tread on me, because my daddy didn’t love me. Step on me or get in my way or look at me cross-eyed, and I’ll kill you. See my license plate?
A vague impression of yet another reason lurks in the murky and nebulous regions of my consciousness. I wonder if, perhaps, the American individual, including the female individual, sees itself (the neuter might be appropriate here, since most Americans don’t know what they are anyway), as being invincible, omnipotent, capable of squashing any annoying fellow human. Beneath the slogan of the plate, lies the assumption that I have the power and the right to rectify any situation that angers me. This superman (or batman, or whatever—pick your TV hero) mentality rages at his stupid neighbor and says, “Oh yeah? You’ll see. You’ll pay for this. I’ll smash you to bits and grind your guts to mush.” Don’t tread on me, because the force within me will rip out your soul and send it to hell.
Perhaps more could be read into this seemingly innocuous piece of yellow metal, but perhaps I’ve already guessed too much.
The Little Sage Who Couldn't 