Hanging at a painfully bent angle from the side of a porch post, a nylon Confederate flag droops in full view. I see it every day when I take “the back way” home from town. I never not think about it when I see it. Something always crosses my mind. Usually I roll my eyes and scoff at the stupidity of the thing. The fact that Indiana isn’t in the South, and that we actually fought with “Team Lincoln” usually occurs to me first. Then I think: