I keep getting myself in dutch with the paying customers. They say I’m naive.

It’s a complaint I’ve heard a few times over the last year from the good people who read this column. The source of their ire? They are annoyed that I am surprised. Although, in fairness to myself, “surprised” is probably not the right word. “Disappointed” is.

That’s a feeling I’ve found myself expressing a lot lately. I was disappointed that we attacked a nation that had not attacked us. Disappointed that American soldiers abused their prisoners. Disappointed that the nation jailed American citizens and foreign nationals without charges or attorneys. Disappointed that we seriously considered torture. Disappointed, because this was not who we are.

To which a few of my correspondents replied with an invitation to wake up and smell the latte, because as far as they’re concerned, it’s “exactly” who we are. They invoked a litany of American sins, everything from Jim Crow to the Spanish-American War, to the 1945 firebombing of civilians in Tokyo to the wartime internment of American citizens in order to buttress their argument that there is nothing special about this country, that it is as capable of atrocity and misdeed as any other.

What can I say?

They are right on the facts, of course. The nation’s history, 228 years and counting, is filled with the blood of the mistreated and the cry of the abused. No serious student of that history can fail to recognize that we have betrayed ourselves often. Take it as a reminder that people are often smaller than they should be, often withered and diminished by their fear, their greed, their lies, their hate, their need for expedience.

But see, it’s not “people” I was talking about. Not solely, at any rate. As much as or more than it is made up of people, the United States comprises ideals. And if the people are sometimes small, the ideals are larger than life. Equality before the law. Freedom to speak, worship, gather and challenge authority. The right to pursue personal happiness.

The result is a nation where, in theory and often enough in fact, you can rise as far as your luck, talent and hard work will take you. A nation where you can invent your own destiny.

Granted, the distance between the people and the ideals is often vast, but that’s the great challenge of American life, learning to be large. And if history is replete with evidence of our sins, it also contains more than a few examples of what happens when we manage to match our ideals. You get the Marshall Plan, the Berlin airlift, the labor movement, the “I Have A Dream” speech, and men on the moon.

It becomes, I suppose, a question about the proverbial glass — half empty or half full? Are we defined by how often we succeed in being large, or by how often we fail?

Both, I think, because each has lessons to teach us.

The problem is, some of us are conflicted about loving this country. Those on the right often act as if love must be blind and unquestioning. Those on the left often act as if it must be grudging and reluctant.

I reject both extremes. Is it all right with you if I love my country with eyes wide open? Do you mind if I abhor its sins but still honor its ideals? Is it OK if I am disappointed when its people are small, or am I required to always expect the worst?

A few days ago, a historian heard me talking about this in an interview. Afterward, we walked together down the hall. He told me a story of World War II, how some German soldiers would march miles out of the way so they could surrender to Americans. U.S. troops, they felt, were more likely to treat them humanely than the Russians or even the Britons.

In other words, they believed they had a better chance here. It’s a faith that is still echoed around the world by people who look toward this country with expectation and hope. But maybe they’re just naive.

There’s a lot of that going around.

Leonard Pitts Jr., winner of the 2004 Pulitzer Prize for commentary, is a columnist for the Miami Herald.