Red, white, and blue fly around but once a year. Houses are
decorated in these colors, streaming and screaming Independence. Yes,
Independence means different things to different people. For some it means
running a road race whether it is the Brentwood Firecracker or the Sprint for
Freedom. For others it means a cookout where everyone gets plastered. Then
there are those who it means the return of a family member from Afghanistan.
Sometimes, it means celebrating citizenship or an anniversary free from a demon
that consumed one’s life.
Independence could also be my old middle school, a blue
ribbon winning Junior High where I spent most of my awkward pre-teen years. I
never felt the independence that the bald eagle who was our mascot preached,
but rather bondage to parents, teachers, and social standards unfulfilled. I
never felt pretty enough as a chubby girl with braces and horrendous makeup.
Instead, I was the subject of taunts from a popular girl and her cronies.
Another thing to make you a prisoner, your peer group.
The crazy thing was, in those chains I did find freedom. I
found my skill as a writer, storyteller, ventriloquist, comedian, and
television host. I loved what I was doing and didn’t care. Suddenly, those
cronies couldn’t bring me down. I had broken the proverbial cuffs, links, and
chains the world had bestowed upon me telling me what I should want as a young
woman. Within that dungeon called growing up somehow I found freedom.
Of course the cronie who made fun of me became the ultimate
follower. In high school someone called her fat, poetic justice for as mean as
she had been to me. She lost a bunch of weight and had to go on psych meds
which made her balloon up. In everyone of her facebook photos she is drunk and
has a glazed over, sad look in her eyes. For as much as she wanted us all to
believe she had it all under control she doesn’t. She is far from being free. She
is in twenty three hour a day lockdown in the haunted house upstairs.
For the Fourth I went to my aunt’s house. I saw my baby
cousins, now getting big. My cousin Joey had his first big year of freedom. This
fall he starts as a sophomore at Case Western. One’s first year of freedom from
Mom and Dad makes one realize there is a price for such a concept. Sure, my
cousin has his own time, but if he doesn’t study he flunks out. If he is not
fit he does not have a place on the football squad. If he does not comply he
does not make the fraternity. However, he did well with football, the frat, and
school. As a matter of fact he made the Dean’s List. He is doing well with his
new found freedom.
My sister is also experiencing a new kind of freedom. She is
auditioning for her rounds as a student doctor at Shadyside Hospital. Living in
an apartment, she visits my parents when she can. But now she has the freedom
to choose her own destiny. While matching is stressful, my sister knows she has
the freedom to say yes or no, and to choose the place that is best for her to
practice emergency room medicine. A Virgo who likes to be in charge, my sister
will like the freedom of being the Grand Pouba. However, with great freedom
does come great responsibility.
My cousin Kelsey and my birthday twin is a nurse. She was
telling me that if a doc is a jerk the nurses have ways of fighting back. While
it sounds crazy, it is refreshing to know this system of checks and balances
exists in the American hospital in order to keep patients safe from the tyranny
of doctors who believe they are dictators.
Looking around, I see the people at the party experiencing
freedom to drink freely and eat as much fatty food as they want. I am eating
lots of fatty food. I joke that they may have to roll me out of there. However,
as the hot dogs my cousin Bobby cooks on the grill are shoved into our mouths
along with the hamburgers, he mentions he is going to Vietnam as a part of his
cruise where he works as a musician. My uncle says, “Years ago, when you said
your kid was going to Vietnam everyone freaked. Now you tell them to take
plenty of pictures.”
This is true. Unlike the heroes of other wars these men were
treated like killers when they came home. Sometimes we give similar treatment
to Iraqi soldiers. Scary as it is, Americans have forgotten to be grateful to
the men and women who serve. Not only is it disrespectful, it is disheartening
as I remember watching Gone with the
Wind. The Civil War was father against son, brother against brother, and
many of those guys were only eighteen when they met their end. Same with the
young men in the jungles of Vietnam and in the sand pit of Afghanistan. They
wave our flag and we flip them the bird by having no social programs for them.
They fight for our freedom, we in turn make them prisoners.
As I chow down, my grandfather makes an appearance. He looks
good despite his recent health struggles and being a part of this celebration
is his first taste of freedom in sometime. Then I remember, he is going to be
ninety four. He fought in Japan during World War II. Both my grandfathers did.
My dad’s father, who died long before I was born, used to insist his children ate
all their food because he had witnessed people picking food out of the garbage
in Japan after the explosion of the atomic bomb. Then we realize how good we
have it as compared to the rest of the world.
As a blogger, I spout off my opinions freely. In other parts
of the world I would be arrested. Sure, there are dirty cops but there are
lawyers who fight back and know the law and protect their clients. Maybe
sometimes defendants have too many rights, but in other parts of the world you
are guilty until proven innocent.
Then I talk to my brother later in the day who lives near
Boston. The town is alive with Revolutionary War celebrations. I think of the
gun powder and the young men who died at Lexington and Concord, minutemen unprepared
to tackle the British Army. However, they didn’t care as they stormed that
hill. They were sick of being oppressed and wanted freedom and were willing to
die the death of a psychotic hero in order to do it. That is America.
Because of their bloodshed we have the right of freedom of
speech and to occupy Wall Street. Because of these men and their brave
sacrifice, we have the right to have elections every four years. It’s because
they weren’t afraid and they kept fighting.
That’s what freedom is, not just the will to fly and do what
you please but the courage to fight and to do it.
Happy Birthday America
Love,
April
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