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Today is Independence Day, and sunset is fast approaching. Although I'm pleased to hear the occasional pop of a firecracker -- evidence that there's still a dull glow of disrespect for the encroaching police state, perhaps even enough heat to one day emit a revolutionary spark -- my heart really isn't in it. I won't be going out tonight to watch the pre-approved "public" displays of arching, showering flame and listen to the patriotic tunes that few can put words to any more.
It would be disrespectful to those who made the holiday possible.
By the time you read this, your holiday will be over. I'm not trying to guilt-trip you for having enjoyed a cold one while listening to the boom of ersatz cannon and watching the rockets' red glare. As a matter of fact, I waited to write it for the express purpose of letting you enjoy yourself -- and now that you have, there's a whole year in which to forget what I have to say, or take it to heart.
A little over two centuries ago, in the early days of July, the Continental Congress met in Philadelphia and promulgated something they called "The Unanimous Declaration." Written, for the most part, by a fiery redhead who would go on to become the third president of the country he helped found, the Declaration set out in stark terms the complaint of Britain's colonists in the New World, and what they intended to do about it.
The Declaration did not emerge from a vacuum. The explosive force of revolution had been building for more than a decade, from the passage of the Sugar and Stamp Acts in 1764. It had found expression in the Boston Tea Party and a thousand acts like it, and it had come to a head in the little towns of Lexington and Concord, exploding into open war a year before the Declaration. It took Tom Paine's "Common Sense" to move the people onto the streets, shouting a word that they would not have dared utter -- or even think -- a few short months earlier.
Independence.
A new nation.
A better nation.
How much better? Read the words and ponder:
"We hold these Truths to be self-evident, that all Men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness -- That to secure these Rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just Powers from the Consent of the Governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these Ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government ..."
Those words stirred a generation to action, and for the first time in human history a free nation was born. Half a decade of hard fighting, and another of searching the national soul, brought forth the Constitution of the United States of America, written in -- and paid for by -- the blood of a people who saw tyranny, loaded their muskets, and said "No."
When the Continental Congress put their John Hancocks -- in one case, literally -- on the Unanimous Declaration, they pledged their lives, fortunes and sacred honor to its implementation. Many of them, and others, paid that price in full.
We've spent two centuries undoing their work while simultaneously paying fake homage to them every year on the 4th of July. We wave the flag, we cheer the music, and we take inordinate delight in mimicking the explosions that meant an early grave for 4,000 men.
If Thomas Jefferson could be called back from the grave today to be told that an American could not walk down any street openly displaying a firearm, he would surely weep.
If Benjamin Rush could be resurrected to see the government he helped create imprisoning people for their choice of medicines, he would no doubt regret that 4,000 lives had been wastefully squandered for nothing better -- something considerably worse, in fact -- than that which he had fought against.
If the shade of Samuel Chase could hover over the city named for our first president and built on a plot of land ceded in part by his home state of Maryland -- if he could see the Swarms of Officers, dutifully awaiting the Metro for a ride to their hive of offices and cubicles, would he not rail against the botched job we've made of his life's work?
In Thomas Jefferson's America, Lon Horiuchi would be on trial for his life.
In George Washington's America, the employees of the Internal Revenue Service would find new jobs -- or swing from lampposts by their necks.
In Francis Marion's America, the BATF would be cornered at Yorktown and given a chance to honorably surrender and leave.
We're not there yet. But we once were. And we can be again.
In the Jewish tradition, the Passover commemorates the day on which Israelite families, enslaved in Egypt, marked their doors so that the angel of God would pass them by and not take the life of their family's first born. At the Passover seder, or traditional meal, a seat is left empty for the prophet Elijah, and the destruction of the temple and dispersion of the Jewish people is commemorated with the wishful salutation "Next year in Jerusalem."
Independence Day should be that kind of holiday for all Americans. On this day, we should hang a copy of the Bill of Rights on our doors, leave a seat at the table for Thomas Jefferson, and contemplate the sacrifice of those who went before us. Mourning, not exultation, is the appropriate observance. Forward thinking to a renewal of freedom, not faux celebration of that which we have lost, is the gift we can give to our forefathers and our descendants.
Next year.
In Philadelphia.