Independence Daze
I have not always hated the Fourth of July. I was eight in 1976, the year that America celebrated its bicentennial, and I recall that summer being a pleasant one. My family spent it in the small New York town my father had grown up in, visiting grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins who still lived there. Because of the anniversary, the events surrounding the Fourth were accompanied by even more fanfare than usual. I remember fireworks, and a parade complete with firetrucks. There was a backyard barbecue, and sparklers, and red-white-and-blue popsicles shaped like rocket ships.
When we returned home, however, things took a turn. My mother, inspired by the nationalistic fervor sweeping the country, surprised me by redecorating my room in a patriotic theme. I came home one day to find the walls papered in red-white-and-blue stripes. My Snoopy curtains had been replaced with ones covered in American flags. My bedside lamp was now a Revolutionary War soldier brandishing a musket.
I was not pleased. Sparklers and a parade are one thing, jingoistic decorating choices are another. I’m not saying sleeping in that shrine to America’s Revolution was what soured me on the whole Fourth of July thing, but I don’t recall ever again looking forward to the holiday. And since then, I’ve come to actively hate it.
Partly it’s the noise. I hate the sound of fireworks. Also, they terrify animals. More pets go missing during the days surrounding the Fourth than at any other time. So now every time I hear them going off, I worry that another dog or cat has taken off in fear or is hiding somewhere, trembling and waiting for the racket to stop while oblivious humans satisfy their need to make things explode.
Mostly, though, it’s that the older I get, the less I’m convinced we have all that much to celebrate when it comes to being citizens of these United States. Especially now that the Great Orange Toddler is rampaging through the halls of the White House, throwing daily Twitter tantrums and playing Complainer in Chief. The Fourth is supposed to be a celebration of independence, of freedom triumphing over tyranny. Yet what we’re living with now is the greatest threat to our freedoms that we’ve seen in decades.
The first election I remember paying attention to was the one in 1980, when Reagan was elected and (to me) a terrible era began. As a young gay man coming of age, the next 12 years under first Reagan and then Bush Sr. were not easy ones to navigate. Seeing my government actively attempt to kill me and people like me made me realize for the first time that while I might technically be an American citizen, I was not equal to everyone else, not by a long shot. This was not news to many in other marginalized communities, but to this white boy from the country it was a revelation.
Things improved under Clinton, although not a whole lot, and mostly I was just relieved that the Reagan/Bush years were over and I wasn’t dead. And then we entered another dark age under yet another Bush, and in the immortal words of Yogi Berra it was “déjà vu all over again.” Seldom during this time was I proud to be an American. By the time the 2008 election rolled around, I had spent 40 years living under elected leaders I was at worst terrified of and at best disappointed by. Every year when the Fourth of July came around, I looked at the flags and the fireworks and thought, “Yes, it’s a great country, but only for some of us.”
When Barack Obama was elected, I felt for the first time that maybe I could get behind the whole flag-waving thing. Finally, Americans had made a good decision. Finally, we were getting somewhere. Finally, I had a president I could look at and feel proud to have represent me to the rest of the world. I might even have bought sparklers and not complained quite so loudly about the fireworks for eight years.
But now. Ugh. Now. I can’t even begin to think about celebrating the Fourth. It’s like my mother came in and redecorated my room again, only this time she just set fire to it and left it to burn, with me in it. When your friends in other countries are sending you condolence cards and asking if you maybe want to come live with them, you know things have gotten bad. When you wake up every morning thinking “What now?,” it’s pretty hard to muster any enthusiasm for celebrating your citizenship.
Don’t get me wrong. I know we live in a wonderful place. But right now, it’s sometimes hard to remember that. And as I approach 50, I find myself wondering if I’ll ever truly live in a country I’m proud to call home, surrounded by people I’m proud to call countrymen, represented by people I’m proud to have helped put into office. As I write this, a news bulletin informs me that for the first time since the Clinton administration, the White House will not acknowledge in any way the festival of Ramadan. Just like there was no acknowledgement of Pride, and barely anything done for Black History Month. And, and, and. The list of this administration’s failures and embarrassments is seemingly without end. Just when you think we’ve reached the pinnacle of ignorance, cruelty, and greed, they somehow manage to one-up themselves yet again.
And it’s not just the elected officials. It’s the people who did the electing. People in general, really. The ones who keep killing those they’re supposed to be protecting, and the ones who fail to hold them responsible time after time after time. The ones who think the bathroom somebody uses is a threat to them. The ones who think anyone who doesn’t look like them is an enemy. We are no longer the land of the free and the home of the brave, we are the land of the bullies and the home of the frightened.
I won’t be celebrating the Fourth this year. I just don’t have it in me. Or maybe I will. Maybe I’ll resist. When I was little, the sparklers we got every year reminded me of magic wands. Running through the yard with them, I imagined that they could grant wishes. Maybe this year I’ll get a packet of them and give it a try. After all, If Glinda could banish the Wicked Witch of the West with a flick of hers, maybe I can use one to change 45 back into a pumpkin. It’s worth a shot.
Michael Thomas Ford is happy that the fireflies have returned for the summer. More Michael Thomas Ford