Ten years ago, if you’d asked me what my favourite holiday was, I’d’ve said it was probably the Fourth of July. What wasn’t to love? It was in the middle of summer, which meant it was likely to be one of the few days of the year when I didn’t have to wear six layers of clothing, and it was the one day where explosives were practically permitted.
(They weren’t really, of course. Only things which don’t leave the ground, like fountains, were legal to be lit where I grew up. However, you could own anything, and since we lived right on the border with another state, where it was legal to own and explode damn near anything, we imported a lot. It got to the point where my best friend would buy so much out-of-state firepower that it had to get delivered in a special shipment, which required a lot of red-tape paperwork. I always thought it was hysterically funny that he could get permission to buy an entire truckload of city-grade fireworks, and no problem, but he had to bring over a police scanner when we lit them off, because that was illegal, and we always made sure to stop if anyone of a law-enforcement persuasion as in the neighbourhood.)
Much as I love explosives, what I really loved about the Fourth of July was that I felt like it belonged to me. I’m DAR and a whole lot of other letters that mean my ancestors got to America really early in the game, and played various roles in creating the nation. Of course the whole country belongs to anyone who claims it as home, but I used to feel like I had a special stake in it, because of those ancestors. Not only get I get to be proud of being American, but I felt that I could be proud that, thanks to my antecedents, there was an America in the first place.
Also, it’s a secular holiday. Holidays are, almost by definition, religious, which means that I have to bow out of them. I’m one of those people who actually believes that Christmas is just that: Christmas, and should be religious; but it also means that, as an atheist, I don’t get to celebrate it. And that’s fair. But the one- and, as far as I can tell, only, apart from the discrimination issues- down side to being an atheist is that there aren’t very many celebratory days that offer up the chance for a good party. The Fourth of July is inherently secular (because as hard as the fundies may try to co-opt it, it’s not actually about their god). It’s the celebration of a nation founded on non-sectarian principles and even- dare I say it?- the ideals of secular humanism. America’s founding fathers came straight out of the Enlightenment tradition, and you don’t get much less religious than that. Yah, I loved the Fourth.
But.
You’ll notice that this is all in the past tense. And you may also have noticed, if only via the title of this blog, that I left that nation and moved to England- back to the parent stem. Not only does America no longer give me the warm fuzzies, but I’ve got my eye out for any chance possible to become a British citizen. If only my ancestors hadn’t rebelled, I’d have it by birth, dammit!
I’m not exactly sorry that they did. I’m only sorry that I’ve had to live through watching the nation those ancestors created get flushed down the bog. They built a country on good ideas, on ideals that were worth living up to, on principles I could comfortably embrace. But the America that I left is a place they wouldn’t recognize. Or maybe they would: they would realise how much it looks like an even worse version of imperial Britain.
Somewhere along the line (actually, it’s not a generic ‘somewhere’, it’s about three days after Wank Day, at about half eight in the evening, to be precise) I went from being relatively proud of my nation of birth to being so angry with it that I couldn’t see straight- so angry that I moved three thousand miles away, to the country America didn’t want to be part of once upon a time. England’s got its problems, no argument there. But England never promised me that it was the land of truth and justice and freedom, and then turn out to be a place of lies, and abuse of power, and repression. It’s the breaking of the promise that I can’t forgive.
The other reason I avoid the Fourth is because flag waving has come to have a sinister meaning to me. Patriotism as a concept is all bound up with the “you’re with us or against us” mentality of a post-Wank Day America, one which waves flags as a middle finger to the rest of the world and anyone in its own boundaries who doesn’t follow a proscribed (inherently Republican and neo-conservative) ideology. Pride in America and being American has been co-opted by a political agenda and a public with no more intelligence or common sense than sheep, and I don’t want to be seen as part of that. I consider my day of activism and protest in Washington to be a thousand times more patriotic than sticking a flag or a yellow ribbon on the back of my car’s bumper. To me, being “against them”, meaning our current regime, is the most patriotic thing I can be or do. Unfortunately, this all means that my joy in the Fourth has become tainted, and I just can’t celebrate it like I used to.
I don’t remember what went on at Constantine last year for the holiday. I vaguely recall Alicia, one of the PhD students and then Brett’s girlfriend, throwing the first annual White Trash Fourth of July party, duplicated again this year. We’re not friends and I’m not keen on the theme, so I’m pretty sure I stayed home. This year, I did go to Constantine’s barbecue. It’s the first Constantine party I’ve been to since leaving- the first one to which I’ve been invited- and so I thought it would be nice to show up, both from a general PR standpoint and also because I hate how distanced I’ve become from the life of CMS. It’s partly just circumstantial- I don’t live in university housing anymore with everyone, and this year’s crowd is slightly strange and sophomoric by turns- and it’s partly my own fault: I’ve always had a tendency to find my own society and then shut everyone else out, and the Tribe, and particularly the heart of the Tribe, has been sufficient for my contentment. But I recognise that being so isolated is not actually in anyone’s best interest, least of all my own.
And it was a nice evening. I got to see some people I rarely hang out with, and since James and Adrienne were off doing other things and James II is in Norway until the twelfth, I was actually sociable. It just seemed strange, to be there in celebration of a nation that broke away from the one in which I reside, which I moved to in part to escape the said offshoot country. But it’s funny: being outside of America, away from the America and Americans who set me teeth on edge and make me want to scream aloud and tase things, celebrating the Fourth seems less offensive. It’s an acknowledgement of the country of my birth, not a shallow, sheeplike following of some political ideology, motions gone through because heaven forbid someone might think you don’t absolutely love America rah-rah-rah. I still won’t sing along with the national anthem, and I still won’t raise my hand and acknowledge being an American, but I also don’t feel a pathological rage at seeing an American-flag bunting on the picnic table, either. Stateside, my fingers would itch for my lighter and some propane. Here, it’s just a bit of wistful nostalgia.
I suppose all expats or immigrants who leave their nation of origin for ideological or political reasons must have these moments of ambivalence. How do you find a respect and, dare I say, love, for the country that created you, even when that country is so terribly broken? How do you honour your heritage and hate what’s become of it? How do you have pride in your homeland when you know it’s doing horrible, reprehensible things, both within and without its own borders? How do you love the nation your ancestors built when you are someone that the current version of that nation doesn’t want?
I don’t have any answers. Mostly, I’m putting my hopes in the November elections. I won’t quite say that I think Obama walks on water, but if the man has an Achilles’ heel politically I haven’t seen it yet. I’m just not sure how much it will take to undo the damage of the last eight years- the damage that turned my pride in my heritage into an endless stream of apology. And, in truth, even an Obama presidency isn’t going to make me want to return to the States; I’m far too happy here in England. But I’d like, someday, to again be able to celebrate the Fourth of July and really mean it.
