Reflections on 250 Years
By Butch Freedman
Do I love my country? Frankly, not so much these past few years. How could I—or anybody? Look at the evidence of what we’ve become under trump and his handlers. There’s little to be happy about there. Did I say little? I meant nothing. His reign has brought nothing but the wholesale destruction of democratic norms, mixed in with unending corruption and grift. Do you think trump is proud to be an American, proud of the country? Is that what he truly believes when he wraps himself in the flag and sets off massive fireworks, or invites young men to bloody each other on the White House lawn? Do the trump-appointed conservatives of the supreme court love this country? Is that why they trash abortion rights and voting rights and tell transgender children they have no right to be alive? How about Steven Miller? Is that horrible, ugly little man a patriot? Miller would like to make America all white, send all immigrants to concentration camps. A lot of our fellow citizens agree.
But despite all of the sadness and despair these last couple years have brought, the fear that the ugliness and homophobia, will never end, I still do see some light. In fact, quite a lot of it. And I still, maybe foolishly, believe in M.L.K.’s declaration that “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”
My hope is that the trump era is an aberration, and one that we will recover from. Maybe fairly soon. The mid-terms are looming. And despite the almost certain effort of the republican stooges to attempt to invalidate the results, we will prevail. See, I can still be an optimist. We’re all holding our collective breath. And doing what needs to be done. Calling on our friends and neighbors to make their voices heard. Even among the staunchest of trump allies, doubts are rising—have risen right out of the swamp of his 20 million dollar reflecting pool debacle. And his billion-dollar gilded ballroom; and the fact that he clearly doesn’t give a damn about anything or anybody except himself and his own enrichment. Every sentence about a trump action begins with one word—unprecedented. We’ve never seen the like in our 250 years. The ugliness makes it almost impossible to now celebrate the country.
But, in small ways, we will still try. In our little village, we will have a Fourth of July parade, with kids on bikes and the volunteer fire company throwing candy to the crowds. We’ll not talk about politics (though it has crept in at times—parents dressing their little kids in trump tee shirts. We tried hard not to boo. It wasn’t the kids’ fault.) After the parade, just down and back 4th Street, residents and visitors alike will share in a potluck, burgers and hot dogs and beans. and we’ll listen to music and some will dance. That’s when America is at its best. And when, away from the madness of the news, I can be proud of my country. At least for a day.
