bakingsodavolcano

[bakingsodavolcano]

americana

Each year, as Independence Day rolls around, I unavoidably reflect on my American identity. Growing up in a red county in a blue state, my white, firmly middle-class, baby boomer parents taught me love and respect for the country that had served them. My mother, the daughter of a career navy man, flies an American flag from our front step each July 4th. She drove me through the grounds of the VA each Independence Day to observe their display of veteran flags. I was a Boy Scout, where each meeting began with the Pledge of Allegiance and the Scout Oath, containing the words “On my honor, I will do my best, to do my duty, to God and my country.”

All to say: I am no stranger to patriotism. And yet, each year I am only able to muster a dwindling fraction of that pride for this nation.

Just nights ago, in synchronized shock with thousands of others, I watched the presidential debate. But to me, having become truly politically conscious during the 2016 election (just missing the cutoff to vote by a few weeks), the debate was not a shameful malfunction of a system in disrepair, rather, it perfectly fit within my perception of how the system has always been. I, and many others my age, know no form of American politics without Donald Trump. Without spite, without vitriol, without audacity.

I have not witnessed civil campaigns between candidates who demonstrate respect and courtesy. I have witnessed “grab her by the pussy” and “crooked Hillary.”

I have not witnessed the peaceful transition of power. I have witnessed the sitting president stoke a violent mob to insurrection.

And I am currently witnessing a septuagenary, twice impeached, recently convicted, egomaniac who has never won the popular vote carve his path to the White House for the second time, in his third election, while he calls his shot.

Should I be proud of that?

Should I be proud of the generation of people who will never own their own home or pay off the student loans they took out when they were eighteen, despite making more money than their parents or grandparents ever did. Working jobs with no healthcare, no pension, and no security all while being told “no one wants to work anymore.”

Should I be proud that if my daughter was shot at school or the movies or at work or the mall or at a bar or a concert or in her car or in her bed it might not even make the news?

How can this be the land of the free and the home of the brave if each year I feel less free and more afraid?

So despite the rosy tint my Americana upbringing has taken in my memory, this year I’m not proud at all. I might never be again.

[bakingsodavolcano]

you are not special and you have nothing to say

You will never be special despite whatever you may have been told. Who told you that? They were biased or wrong or lying. Maybe the potential they saw was nothing more than aptitude. You were good at taking tests. Good at paying attention. Sit up. Look at me. Good boy. You memorized well, at least long enough to demonstrate a thing before discarding it. Their handful of prized traits came easily to you. If you were ever advanced, many have caught up or even passed you by. You're just like the rest. You can't do everything or anything or even most things. Maybe two, three, and you should feel lucky for them.

Despite all that, those people who buffed you up and made you feel big wanted nothing more for you than what you have now. You were never going to change the world and they didn't expect you to. Swallow that. Eat your pie. Take your pills. Live before you die, and don't waste another second feeling smaller than you are or less than you should because you haven't measured up to the mountain you built for yourself.