Grieving the Fourth
A love letter, a eulogy, and a declaration.
Its no great secret that my favorite holiday is Halloween. The fall air, the pumpkin spice and apple pie flavored everything, flannel, crunchy orange leaves, and Samhain’s dark magic. Spooky movie marathons. Haunted houses. Too many events to attend and never enough nights to fit them in.
But there’s one other holiday that’s been a deep-down favorite since before I can even remember: Independence Day.
We had a lot of traditions that evolved as our family did, but one stayed constant: Independence Day was our family movie.
We can quote it by heart. I still choke up at President Whitmore’s speech, still yell “WELCOME TO EARTH,” and happily suspend my disbelief at the very corny “America saved the world” ending. It’s absurdly unrealistic, but it’s charming.
The Small Town Stage
July 2nd usually kicked things off. I would be out of school for the summer and someone would inevitably say
“You know what today is? Today’s the day the alien’s arrive!”
We’d watch the movie once or twice between the 2nd and the 4th, like a sacred ritual.
Independence Day morning we’d pack up our lawn chairs, throw on our Old Navy Flag shirts, load the cooler and sunscreen, and go find a spot along the local parade route. When we lived in our first house, we could walk there. After the move, we drove. O’Fallon, MO isn’t a small town exactly, but we’d still run into at least 3 or 4 people we knew.I’d see friends in the marching bands, on Boy Scout floats, and representing every civic group in town.
We’d come home sunburned and sticky, a big ol’ bag of candy, water bottles, and corporate tchotchkes.
Some years we went to BBQs, some we just lazed around in the A/C.
But one summer stands out:
We went to a big family BBQ in St. Charles. The older cousins were lighting fireworks, the aunts catching up inside, and the uncles gathered around the grill with Stag and Budweiser in hand.
I was 16. I brought my boyfriend to a family event for the first time and even though my godfather threatened him to within an inch of his life if he hurt me, we had a blast. In the evening, the whole family walked down to the riverfront for the evening fireworks.
And where is that boyfriend now? Why he’s in my living room.
DIY Patriotism
In my early NYC years, I always made sure to go home during the week of the 4th. We stopped going to St Charles for fireworks and stayed in town. Think: state fair, minus the livestock and contests. That’s the O’Fallon’s Heritage & Freedom Fest. There were rides, fireworks, cover bands, and all the Fried Oreos my dad could eat. A small slice of Americana.
After my parents divorced, I stopped going home, but I didn’t stop celebrating the 4th. For a few years, a few of us would get together and go to the Meadowlands State Fair at the MetLife Stadium. It was more like a traveling carnival on a parking lot than Norman Rockwell, but it was magical in its own way. I still daydream about the lemonade and orangeade.
The Big Tamale
Last year.
Oh man, last year was the big tamale.
I’d been working on Biden campaign for a little under 2 months, and as campaign staff we were invited to the 4th of July party at the White House on the South Lawn. No plus ones sadly, but Zach understood.
It was right after the first debate—when everyone was pressuring the President to step down.
A voice in my head whispered:
Go. If we lose, you may never get this holiday again.
I drove from Philly to DC, picked up my friend Charisse on the way. We were both working out of HQ—me on the presidential, her on the coordinated campaign.
We wandered the city, ducked into an art museum when the skies opened up, then joined the long line of campaign staff outside the gates.
Once we got past the gates, the day becomes a blur.
The rain still clung to the grass, but I was on the South Lawn. The South Lawn.
The USO band played America the Beautiful, God Bless America, Stars and Stripes Forever right there on the White House steps.
I got to see President Joe Biden, Dr Jill Biden, Kamala Harris, and Second Gentleman Doug Emhoff wish us a Happy Independence Day. Finally the fireworks and the long drive home. I saved a spare White House napkin and my reusable White House souvenir cup.
The concentrated glory of American Patriotism was awe-inducing and a little terrifying. It’s easy to get swept up in the dream when you’re standing in the middle of it.
As I sit here writing this, I’m acutely aware that for a lot of people the Independence Day I describe — this wholesome slice of Americana — it always been a dream, not reality.
This administration knows no depths to the evil they will happily commit to line their pockets. I mean they sell Alligator Alcatraz shirts. Which is not surprising coming from the party of people who happily wore diapers and said they’re with the felon. The GOP has been hell bent on passing this devils bargain they lovingly dub “The Big Beautiful Bill.” Not five minutes ago, Zachary came into my office with a solemn “they passed it.” A far cry from the hope of last year.
So what do we do in 2025?
I’m not sure.
Every time I think I’m done grieving another wave of tears hits me. I cry when I least expect it. I feel a loss I can’t quite name.
My only plan is to watch Independence Day for the millionth time and when President Whitmore makes his speech I’ll mouth the words like a prayer with tears rolling down my cheeks:
We will not go quietly into the night!
We will not vanish without a fight!
We're going to live on!
We're going to survive!
Today we celebrate our Independence Day!
Because somehow, some way—we always do.