When I was a kid, there was nothing I wanted to be more than a Revolutionary War reenactor. I would don my Little House on the Prairie-esque dress and bonnet and go the events like the pole-capping and encampments a few towns over. This love for history and for reenactors has stuck around. What hasn't stuck around is the blind patriotism of a kid who idolized Abe Lincoln, who dressed as George Washington, who read and dreamed and played.
I guess the death of George Floyd when I was 16 was the end of that time in my life. All of a sudden it became very clear to me, a privileged, sheltered individual, that America was a deeply flawed institution. There were gaping holes in the tapestry of the conventional historical narrative, burned and etched away by generations of the white ruling class.
Today, I went to a Fourth of July parade. There were old firetrucks and Shriners and Free Masons and a steel pan drum band. There were reenactors and veterans of more recent wars. I smiled and cheered the whole time, clapping especially hard for the minutemen in their wool coats on the hot July day. The whole time, a thought nagged at the back of mind-this is weird. This display of unbridled patriotism, of loud and proud American nationalism-this was weird. It almost felt like for a day we could shake loose our soil moorings, shake loose the reality that America is in many ways and for many people a not-so-great place to live.
I guess in a way I'm still the kid who loved museums and stories of great American heroes in great American wars. I'm not bitter, I'm not embalmed with the harsh chemical fluids of reality. There is a way to find a balance between the dark and the light and still enjoy the parade.
I guess the death of George Floyd when I was 16 was the end of that time in my life. All of a sudden it became very clear to me, a privileged, sheltered individual, that America was a deeply flawed institution. There were gaping holes in the tapestry of the conventional historical narrative, burned and etched away by generations of the white ruling class.
Today, I went to a Fourth of July parade. There were old firetrucks and Shriners and Free Masons and a steel pan drum band. There were reenactors and veterans of more recent wars. I smiled and cheered the whole time, clapping especially hard for the minutemen in their wool coats on the hot July day. The whole time, a thought nagged at the back of mind-this is weird. This display of unbridled patriotism, of loud and proud American nationalism-this was weird. It almost felt like for a day we could shake loose our soil moorings, shake loose the reality that America is in many ways and for many people a not-so-great place to live.
I guess in a way I'm still the kid who loved museums and stories of great American heroes in great American wars. I'm not bitter, I'm not embalmed with the harsh chemical fluids of reality. There is a way to find a balance between the dark and the light and still enjoy the parade.
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