Here she speaks about life: Hers.
One year we had a Russian intern at the company I worked at then (Global Greengrants Fund). So I brought her to a Fourth of July celebration. It was a bunch of 20-something -year-olds sitting around a house and backyard barbecue. I’ll never forget how she greeted everyone that day: “Congratulations on your independence!” She said it to every new guest that arrived. I’ll also never forget the sort of shocked slow blinks that she got in response as people figured out what she was referring to. It was as if she was reminding everyone that this was more than just an extra day off work. Inevitably understanding would dawn, and someone would hold up their six pack in acknowledgement and say thanks.
Admittedly for me, the Declaration of Independence and the split of our country from England is pretty far from my mind every Fourth of July. Mostly I just think of it as a day where men and boys get to blow shit up.
I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. You must have seen that almost slavering affect that the ability to ignite fireworks has on some men. I’m happy for them. But personally, I just don’t care. Lighting off fireworks doesn’t even sound like fun to me. If I were forced to be the one to light the fuse, I would be cringing in scared horror.
Sadly even the fireworks have lost the real magic for me. If anyone has advice or perspective to pep up my attitude I’d be happy to hear it. I don’t hate it. I mean I “ooooh and ahhhh” as I see the sky light up. I don’t boycott it. But I also think, “God all the debris from this is going right into the bay.” (That’s where the firework display goes off on our island.) And, I find myself thinking about the peculiars of the lives of people who design explosives shaped like smiley faces and who ignite fireworks off a barge in the middle of a bay.
But I suppose, this is their day to shine. So, in salute of our Independence I say, “Let’s blow some shit up!” Let the boys have their fun. Slobber. Slobber.