My Grumpy Fourth of July

Fourth of July.

Would it be terrible to say, “Bah Humbug?”

Sorry. I don’t really mean that.  Not entirely.

But the Fourth of July felt different for me this year.

Maybe you can relate?

There’s an annual parade in my little hometown. It’s been going on for decades, and parade participants march not once, but two times around the block, since our town isn’t very big. In year’s past, I’ve enjoyed watching the vintage cars, the horses, the children with their decorated wagons and dogs dressed up with ribbons.  Vintage planes made an appearance, doing a flyover. Children from the local elementary school sang the Star Spangled Banner. There was a section of the parade route designated for water fights.  Folks would bring water balloons and squirt guns. Sometimes, a local cement company would bring their truck and shoot water at exuberant bystanders. Cal Fire firefighters would join in, squirting water from their firehoses.  After the parade, there was a salad luncheon at the community center. Local families donated salads and cookies for the event.

It was fun for all of us.

This Fourth of July, I was sad for a few reasons, not all of them related to the holiday. But I confess I felt some Independence Day angst. I was up early for my usual walk around the cemetery, and was just coming down the hill when I heard Lee Greenwood’s “God Bless the USA” blasting from the street below.  It was barely 8:00 am.

“And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free,” Greenwood sang.

That line right there? Brought tears to my eyes. And they weren’t happy tears.

Because it’s not true. Not all Americans are free.

If you are a victim of rape or incest or get pregnant for any old reason and you live in certain states and don’t want to have a baby, you are not free to make that decision for yourself anymore. If you are black and want to go for a run and explore a neighborhood, you are not free, because it’s possible you will be murdered for it (the Ahmaud Arbery shooting). If you are unfortunate enough to live in a place that is riddled with everyday gun violence, you are not free. My “New York Times” July 8 morning briefing talked about how gun violence in Chicago, for example, is “highly concentrated” in a very small area.

“A small sliver of blocks- just four percent there- can account for a majority of shootings,”  The Times said.  “Many of the people in these blocks live in terror. The sound of gunshots is common, sometimes coming multiple times a day. Parents worry that their kids could be next, and young people fear for their own lives.

And what is life like for people in urban areas who are often subject to air and water pollution that damages their health and is especially dangerous for children (Remember the Flint, Michigan water crisis of a few years ago?)?

That’s not freedom.

I also thought it likely that some rowdy “Let’s Go Brandon” fans would join the parade, or that Trump flags would ride alongside the US flag in the back of some of the floats.  Of course, that would be their right. Freedom of speech and all.

I just didn’t want to be there for it.

So I had a lovely day. I went to a friend’s house, and we talked and solved most of the world’s problems.

Another good friend who is also a social studies teacher helped me work through some of my angst. She said she was reading the Gettysburg Address that day, and Lincoln’s words helped her remember. (“It is for us the living to be dedicated to the unfinished work… to be dedicated to the great task remaining before us…”)  In other words, we can’t give up. We have to keep showing up.

One of my neighbors who attended the parade said that, actually, it was lovely. There was maybe one very small Trump-ish sticker, but no Trump flags or “Let’s Go Brandon” cheers.

That may seem like a small thing, but it gives me hope.

I might even be brave and go to the parade next year. It could be one small way that I show up myself.