Column Independence only part of Fourth of July event
By KRIS BERGGREN
With another Fourth of July
celebration under our belts, Im reminded of how I used to feel about this
annual burst of patriotism. For a time in my wet-behind-the-ears younger
adulthood, I adopted a snarly attitude. I refused to be moved by the
rockets red glare and the opening strains of the national anthem.
Government equals capitalist interest equals oppression of
those who do not hold power was my rationale, and I was siding with all
those who had never benefited from the American dream, or whose own dream had
been stolen from them by European settlers.
Heck, I wouldnt even buy postage stamps if they featured the
stars and stripes, much less attend fireworks or watch a parade.
If that wasnt bad enough, the majority of my past nine
summers has been nearly a blur of being miserably pregnant in the humidity,
tired and crabby from having a nursing baby, or grateful for a toddler who
would be too afraid of the screams and booms of the festivities -- all excuses
for not wanting to be part of the throngs ooh-ing and aah-ing over a few
minutes of overrated pyrotechnics. Move over, Scrooge.
In recent years, my childrens excitement about Fourth of
July picnics and fireworks triggered my memories of summer patriotic holidays
circa 1970. Older baby boomers may have been marching righteously for justice
or burning flags in protest of Kent State, but I was riding my banana-seat bike
decorated with red, white and blue crepe paper streamers -- or marching with my
Brownie troop in my neighborhood Memorial Day parade.
On the Fourth some time after dinner and before dusk, we would
drive to what seemed to me to be the hugest lot in the world, where wed
park and wait. We absorbed the heat from summer-hot engines, lounging on
blankets or lawn chairs until the sun disappeared, the air cooled and the
excitement built.
Once the fireworks began they seemed to go on forever, and we all
leaned back and just enjoyed the spectacle until all that was left was the
smoke and burning powder smell. Not only was this one thing the five of us in
my family could agree that we liked, but I suspect I enjoyed the giddy intimacy
in the sea of anonymous families under cover of darkness: Chaos in safety.
So last year my urge to see if it was as much fun as I remembered
overcame my humbug posturing. At dusk we piled in the minivan (we have air
conditioning, a significant improvement over my parents 68 Chevy
Impala) and drove to Veterans Memorial Park. The bumper-to-bumper traffic was
familiar enough, as were the streams of pedestrians clutching coolers, lawn
chairs, blankets. Children got rides on dads shoulders or in red wagons.
We circled the block and found a spot, unloaded kids, blankets and
lawn chairs, and joined the trek to the big field where people were gathering
and settling in as darkness began to fall.
I noticed a variety of families: parents and teens with their
friends; a mom and her young son; a multi-generational Spanish-speaking clan.
The waiting was the same as I remembered. My oldest rested his head in my lap
as he tried to get comfy in the cool evening. The baby cuddled up, oblivious to
it all, on Dads chest while the middle daughter found a safe spot on
Grandpas lap. A stones throw from the airport, we saw dozens of
planes take off, their red and white lights flashing. The teaser fireworks went
off -- just enough flash and acrid after-scent to prime you for the real show.
To remind us that summer was really the backdrop, and that nature
was not to be completely obliterated by the flash and dazzle of artificial
lights, a lone firefly made its blinking way over the heads of the assembly, on
toward a destination of only its knowing.
Ive looked at many things from both sides now. I dont
want my children to grow up naive to injustice, neither do I wish them to be
cynical about their place of birth. A few months ago, we visited the Statue of
Liberty and Ellis Island, where the stories of immigrants fleeing hatred,
seeking freedom and a better life for their children are detailed with photos,
personal belongings and recorded testimonials. I know my mothers family
stories of the journey across the Atlantic.
I also discovered a few years ago that my fathers family
traces ancestors back to a Revolutionary War soldier. So, for better or for
worse, my personal history mirrors my countrys history. What I now know
is that the stories of all the people who have lived on this land are my
stories, too.
Maybe poet Wendell Berry is right when he suggests in his
Manifesto that we love the flag/hate the government. There
is a beauty to this kind of old-time religion of patriotism, an acknowledgment
that despite the atrocities, injustices, blunders and lies perpetrated in our
names by those with political power -- nothing new under the sun -- the
American people are smart enough to know that what we celebrate has little to
do with government and everything to do with community and gratitude for our
tremendous potential.
Looking at it in this way, maybe our cross-cultural, cross-class,
cross-religion gathering before the fire and lights of summer marks our
interdependence as much as it does our independence.
Kris Berggren lives in Minneapolis.
National Catholic Reporter, July 30,
1999
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