Just statistically, because I did live outside the Boston area for several years and because it has had greater and lesser prominence in our wheel of the family year over the decades, I must have spent a Fourth of July apart from my parents before now. I can't remember one. But all holidays this year are strange: all celebrations feel defiant. They are trying to kill us. We're still here; let's eat.
We did not spend the afternoon at my parents' house, churning our traditional strawberry ice cream and watching the cousins of the next generation chase each other around with toy trucks; we are not heading up to Prospect Hill to watch the Esplanade fireworks over the skyline of Boston. It's not possible in this America that the man in the White House wants to call a victory. We made steak tips with helljam and grits and cheese which I ended up making into spontaneous lobster and grits. We did not make our own strawberry ice cream and that's all right. There are fireworks all through the neighborhood. They started around eight o'clock tonight. A man is singing in the street under our window, not in English.
How I feel about celebrating American independence right now: a bit like celebrating Pesach in quarantine. Tell a story of freedom and remember that not all people are free yet and they must be. Open the door to the stranger, especially the stranger in this same country crisscrossed by so many walls and borders it might as well not be. In the afternoon,![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch and I went out walking in the brilliant cool sunshine that would have made wonderful seaside weather in some other worldline and found that the shed behind Pearl Street Studios has been given a new message. He took a picture. One of the Americas I want to live in is on the other side of those words. Next year closer.
We did not spend the afternoon at my parents' house, churning our traditional strawberry ice cream and watching the cousins of the next generation chase each other around with toy trucks; we are not heading up to Prospect Hill to watch the Esplanade fireworks over the skyline of Boston. It's not possible in this America that the man in the White House wants to call a victory. We made steak tips with helljam and grits and cheese which I ended up making into spontaneous lobster and grits. We did not make our own strawberry ice cream and that's all right. There are fireworks all through the neighborhood. They started around eight o'clock tonight. A man is singing in the street under our window, not in English.
How I feel about celebrating American independence right now: a bit like celebrating Pesach in quarantine. Tell a story of freedom and remember that not all people are free yet and they must be. Open the door to the stranger, especially the stranger in this same country crisscrossed by so many walls and borders it might as well not be. In the afternoon,
spatch and I went out walking in the brilliant cool sunshine that would have made wonderful seaside weather in some other worldline and found that the shed behind Pearl Street Studios has been given a new message. He took a picture. One of the Americas I want to live in is on the other side of those words. Next year closer.
