Of Thee I grieve
I could not bring myself to write on this 4th of July (despite a looming deadline). I thought about it. A lot, actually. At the end of the day, after I got my tiny humans to sleep, I ventured to my front porch to let the tangled thoughts unfurl from my mind. I decided that I needed to spend the rest of the evening on my own terms. With my own grief. My own anger. I wanted to allow myself the space to acknowledge these emotions that were percolating in the background of what, I am told, is supposed to be a day where I feel proud and free.
Except I do not feel proud. Nor free.
I imagine that there are white nationalists everywhere (likely none who are reading this), who would, in theory, roll their eyes and tell me that if I do not like it, I can leave. I am assuming they are the same people who shot off fireworks until 12am and who believe I am a baby killing socialist. Turns out, you cannot win them all over. Oh, well.
Within two weeks, our Supreme Failure, I mean, Court, dismantled the bodily autonomy for those who have a uterus. They also decided that guns have more fundamental rights than said uterus, much to the joy of angry white men who do not like to be told what they can and cannot do (oh, the irony). Then, because the Court has too much time on their bloodstained hands, they also gave our planet the middle finger, and made it impossible for the EPA to do their job—making sure we do not ruin that which sustains us.
In the background of this cacophony of hypocrisy, another black man was murdered by the police. Sixty bullet holes were found in his body. What about the 22-year-old white man who murdered seven people at a 4th of July parade? He was taken into custody without any bullets in his body. Everyone knows that America is obsessed with progress, but these events have really taken “progress” to a whole new level of nightmarish hell. At least, for those of us who are awake anymore in America.
Is it any wonder that many Americans wanted to pause and collect their thoughts before mingling over mediocre hot dogs with that one uncle wearing the “Don’t tread on me” shirt? Or the neighbor who loves to wax nostalgic about being “pro all life.” That is, except for black and brown lives. Or gay lives. Or the life of a 10-year-old rape victim, who was forced to either birth a baby or cross state lines for an abortion. Or the planet that is one giant, living, breathing organism that is rapidly edging towards collapse. Or the innocent people who are being torn apart by AR-15 bullets.
How do you stand over a plate of coleslaw and warm beer and chit chat about … well … anything, when this is the current state of America? This is precisely why I think so many dissenting Americans feel like psychological refuges in their own country these days. Never has the gaslighting been stronger. As an adoptee, I can smell gaslighting from miles away. You spend your life being told that you’re “so lucky” because you were adopted—even when this supposed luck does not align with the loss that permeates every inch of your existence. When an adoptee comes out of the fog, suddenly all of that “luck” can feel like perhaps it was a curse, all along.
America, welcome to your very own “coming out of the fog.” Perhaps you will begin to map the truth of what is living in your body and mind. That rage that sits in the back of your throat. The grief that wells in your eyes. The fear that screams at you to run. These parts of you do not give a fuck about the firework show. They are also the most likely parts of you to be paved over with that special brand of American nationalism gaslighting.
Americans really hate being asked to look honestly at their country’s own history. Nothing scares Uncle Sam more than his own shadow—the one that shows his country was built on oppression and control. Women were not included in its very foundation and have had to fight to find their place. Land was stolen from indigenous peoples and claimed as American soil. Black slaves did the hard labor while white folks reaped the rewards.
Our country, as it is today, is not one I am proud of. Writing this makes me uncomfortable because we have been so steeped in the belief that America is the best and greatest there is. Am I allowed to publicly dissent?
It is the truth, though. This is not a nation I want to celebrate emptily with sparklers and block parties. I am prepared to face the shadow of our country’s past and the shadowy muck that we have waded into. We get absolutely nowhere if we cannot acknowledge the darkness of these times. Like being in labor, we are in transition. Being stretched and pulled to the brink of our existence. This is the worst part of labor, when many want to tag out and give up. It is also dark before the dawn breaks and something new is born. Remember, the only way out is through?
As a therapist, I know that our generation may not live to see the newness that is birthing on the horizon. It is our legacy, though. Something we can give to new generations who have placed hope in our hands. Things are atrocious right now. So, if you didn’t want to GAF about America and “freedom” this 4th, I understand. You were not alone.
This is where I typically give a rousing call to action. Perhaps, not tonight. Sometimes, action means marching, calling your representatives, donating, speaking out, and telling your “Don’t tread on me” uncle where to stick that mediocre hot dog. Other times, action is sitting on your front porch on the 4th of July and letting the grief find its way out of your eyes, down your cheeks, and back into the beautiful Mother that you call your home. You belong not to this “America,” but to Her. Remember.
Per aspera, ad astra.
Julie