It’s hard to celebrate when a birthday has been hi-jacked by a band of thugs and the dreams of the Founders are being dashed.
When I was a boy, too many years ago, the Fourth of July was a big deal. I am not sure when I started to realize what it really was all about, but I do know I always looked forward to the day when family would gather, there would be a parade down Main Street and then a big fireworks show at the park.
Over the years, as I aged, we had kids, The Fourth was still a big deal. It was parties, parades, fireworks and, as a parent, a chance to talk to my kids about how our country came to be.
This year, though, I won’t be celebrating. I won’t watch parades and I won’t go to the fireworks. The kids are scattered, my wife has passed, I’m living in a retirement center with other old farts and, Donald Trump is president.
I can’t celebrate the 250th Anniversary of the creation of a noble experiment when it is being blown up, torn apart and spit on every day by a mob of modern-day fascists and billionaires who don’t give a damn about freedom, let alone the obligation of a powerful nation to be compassionate.
Washington, DC, our physical representation of government, is being destroyed, from the destruction and desecration of the East Wing of the White House, to the swamp of the Reflecting Pool, to the destroyed White House Rose garden and the addition of tacking gold decals to every square inch of wall space, to the cage match on the lawn, to the dumbing down and rewriting of history within our museums. I could go on, but I do know I will not set foot inside Washington, DC until Trump and his mob are gone. If they go.
That I will not partake of the usual July 4 events in this 250th birthday year does not mean I will ignore it.
What I will do, I think, is watch a lot of documentaries on our founders and the troubled path they followed along the way to creating our Republic. I may read select portions of the Federalist Papers.
I will reflect on how imperfect our founders were, and how imperfect was their creation. But I will reflect on how they realized their imperfections and created a Constitution and form of government that could grow, learn, change, become more than it was in the beginning. I will reflect on how a group of men – men only – some of whom owned slaves, many of whom couldn’t stand each, could come together and create this marvelous Constitution and shared governance designed to protect against tyrants.
Because of what they created, slavery ended. Later Jim Crow was conquered and civil rights expanded to all, regardless of race, creed, ethnicity, gender identification, point of origin. Women gained the right to vote. Of course, all that is under threat from Trump and his dark forces, but we did all that within in the framework of what our imperfect founders created.
While our overseas ventures have not always been noble or wise, at times when the fate of the world hung in the balance we were there. We joined others in pushing back against tyrants. Graveyards at home and around the world are filled with Americans who paid the ultimate price to protect what our founders created, and share it with the world.
I will think about all that as a political and moral dark cloud hovers over our heads and comes ever closer to the ground.
I will not mark the 250th anniversary of our creation with noise and cheering, but with quiet reflection and gratitude and with the hope that the evil that has fallen on us is temporary, an aberration, and that in coming years we will not allow this great experiment in freedom to come to an end. I will not celebrate as the dreams of the Founders are being spit on and destroyed by a band of thugs.
I see the retirement center is having a little party out on the patio July 4 evening. There is a promise of food and even adult beverages. I suppose I will go. A man has to eat after all, and that will be especially true after a day of reflection. There won’t be fireworks, but rather just old fogies gathering and watching the dusk come, remembering past July 4 days and evenings.
My hope, my bedtime “let it be” plea, will be that on July 4, 2029, if I am still on the topside of the dirt, I will go to a parade, sip margaritas and watch the rockets’ red glares over a family- and fun-filled park.
But, not this year.