I met a high school student from another land last week. He said people back home didn't think Americans were deserving of America. We hadn't been careful enough with it.

My first impulse was to shoot back — blast his country.

My second impulse was to think he was probably right. Living in America is a blessing, a gift. And no gift can ever be "earned." It can only be accepted or rejected.

And we Americans have been turning our backs on a lot of fine gifts in recent years.

Being American is a bedeviling business. It's hard to get the lay of the land, to take the measure of things.

But then that's the way it is in any relationship.

To me, being a patriot isn't about holding a set of principles or notions. It's more like a marriage. It's a relationship — a relationship between me and my homeland. And it comes with all the confusion, misunderstanding, longing, dreams, rewards, regrets, desires that any caring relationship entails.

And just as each marriage is different from other marriages, each person's patriotism, I think, is unique and personal.

There is no handbook for being a patriot.

Being a patriot is an affair of the individual heart.

I'm sure my marriage to America is very different from other marriages. I don't go in for public shows of affection. Others do. And that's fine.

I don't like to indulge in grand gestures. I like to keep things understated. I prefer to express my devotion in private ways, with subtle gifts and quiet declarations.

I like to think I'm dependable; that when needed, I'll be there.

I like to think I'm constant.

I like to think I'm capable of sacrifice and selflessness.

I like to think I'm a good marriage partner to America.

The feeling of having a relationship with a country comes out in a little travel piece I read recently written by Sophia Dembling. She talks about her relationship to America as if it were a series of dates that she had, leading to romance and commitment. She writes:

When I was 19 years old, I tagged along with a friend on a cross-country drive to deliver a baby-blue Plymouth Duster to her brother in Los Angeles.

On that trip, I saw my first cornfields. My first hay rolls. I saw Chicago. The Great Salt Lake. (Yuck.) Cows. The Rockies. For real? I thought this stuff was just rumor and legend.

We drove from New York to San Francisco and then down the jagged coastline to Los Angeles, where I dipped my toes in the Pacific Ocean and fell madly in love with America.

In the end, each day can be different. One day everything is out of kilter. The next day you're singing like a Singer sewing machine. You fret, you cheer, you apologize, you feel bad, you feel good.

And that's just my marriage to my wife I'm talking about.

My marriage to America is pretty much like that.

E-MAIL: jerjohn@desnews.com