Fourth of July

Happy Fourth of July. Or “Happy Unbridled Patriotism Day,” as I’ve coined it.

For the last two Unbridled Patriotism Days, I happened to be in Norway and was able to fully skirt the sudden explosions of red-white-and-blue on every corner. Today, though, I am writing from Wolfeboro, New Hampshire, in which everyone was dutifully decked out to the nines in all patriotic garb (and there I was in my Anti-Flag t-shirt, wondering if anyone would notice…). It is a little alarming how closely US-flag-bodysuits resemble prison jumpsuits, incidentally. The stripes of both represent bars that imprison people, and I wouldn’t want to wear either.

New Hampshire has long been a swing state, colored blue on the Republican-vs.-Democrat map of the States but with fiercely libertarian undercurrents, hence all the don’t-tread-on-me stickers I’ve seen. Hence, also, the customary deluge of candidates New Hampshire experiences when elections roll around--today, I saw Chris Christie and his cheer squad out in force, followed close behind by Marco Rubio’s. I actually shook hands with Rubio, who did not look at me and quickly gravitated towards an older man in military garb. Ben Carson, who did not attend in person, sent to the parade an entire bus--Greyhound-sized, a real travel bus--emblazoned with his name and face, as well as a circling motorcycle handing out Carson paraphernalia. There were also a small Martin O’Malley delegation and several Hillary Clinton signs.

The Fourth of July parade itself trailed to a tired conclusion with a pair of young children holding a Winnipesaukee Republicans banner, looking exhausted or possibly just bored. With this wind-down, many parade-watchers defected to swarm around the real live presidential candidates, done with the seemingly endless procession of antique military hardware and servicemembers, trucks, tractors, bands, local businesses, assorted teams, troops, and clubs of the local kids--including a float from the regional high school, whose express purpose in the parade was to make visible their call for Jimmy Fallon to be the speaker at the class of 2016’s graduation. A half-dozen military floats or contingents passed by too, one with children riding in the back of a pickup truck and wearing beige US Army t-shirts.

This is the New Hampshire I did not glimpse as a child during my summers here--behind the postcard-perfect bay and park and tchotchke stores, this is a state with a certain flavor of American exceptionalism, a worship of the military, a faith in the shiny vision of the country they are glad people die for.  A church here in town bears a sign affirming the US above God: America Bless God, it reads--or commands?--instead of the traditional and perhaps more humble opposite.

Elsewhere were screamed the words United We Stand,  printed on dozens of flag-adorned t-shirts and red-white-and-blue posters. Perhaps we would, I thought, but what about that invigorating statement’s corollary: Divided We Fall?

As the town from which hailed a police chief broadly condemned for his racist remarks about President Obama--the chief was roundly denounced by his local constituents, as well--Wolfeboro ought to be quite aware of the divisions here, the chasms of race and inequality and poverty that undercut not only any facade of unity, but perhaps also the possibility of it, in this starry-eyed striped nation. Another sign on a military float, reminding us All Gave Some, Some Gave All, led me to finish the phrase with Rise Against’s song lyrics from “Survivor Guilt”: all gave some, some gave all/ but for what? I want to know!

For what, indeed? Observing the signs or event postings thanking soldiers for their service, I wondered how that obsequious thanks felt to the ears of the sole parader hoisting a Veterans For Peace flag, if not the rest of the veterans arrayed there. I’ve read quite a bit on some veterans’ deep resentment of the way our culture offers them constant thanks for their service--ostensibly for protecting us--without considering what that cost them and what it continues to cost (i.e. we like to “support our troops” but rarely follow through well when they return home wounded or haunted). Did they give it all so that we could continue to wave these stars and stripes, to swarm smarmy presidential candidates, to feel self-assured and superior and blindly celebratory? Or did they give it all just to be cannon fodder, pieces in a machine that chewed them up, spat them out, and asked for more?

What nation are we, what kind of delusions must we twist our minds into, that ours is a legacy--past, present, and future--of which we can be proud? We are not the land of the free, and I don't believe we are the home of the brave, either, so much as the land of the very, very afraid. 

Earlier this year a girl in my English class gave a speech about patriotism: how to her it doesn’t mean ignoring our bloody, vicious past and burying our current wrongs under a blanket of flags, but that to be patriotic, to love this country, is to recognize and appreciate the potential we have, the good we could do--and then accomplish it.

It was decently convincing. That to be patriotic is to believe in and celebrate not what we are or have been, but what we could be. How we could make the world more fair, more safe, more beautiful, more sustainable, more peaceful. That we could be a country and a generation we could be proud of.

I want to believe we could be better.

I’d like to.

But some days, some places, some moods--all I can see is how far we have left to go, in how very little time.