Pardon My Pessimistic Patriotism
This week was kicked off by 4th of July celebrations across the United States - barbecues and fireworks and parades to celebrate America's declared independence from the British monarchy in 1776. (Well, truly independence was declared on July 2; the document of the Declaration of Independence was approved on July 4, but I digress.)
People dressed in red, white and blue singing patriotic songs and guzzling beer, expressing pride in our country's strength, our freedoms and democracy.
I joined in on the celebrations, watching at least a dozen fireworks displays throughout Los Angeles and Orange Counties from the top of a hill near my house, awed at the large fireballs in the sky on a clear night.
I spent the day at a block party that was a child's wildest dream, complete with crafts, a bounce house, water slides, a parade, cotton candy, face painting, a DJ, food, entertainment and prizes. I marveled at the way the neighbors had come together to build memories for their children and felt blessed to be in such company.
But in the pit of my stomach was a pain that prevented me from feeling terribly patriotic this year. It was a pain that hit home the realization that for all the block parties and community fireworks and celebrations, for the freedoms we enjoy to express free speech and vote for our leaders, we are living in a broken society.
I am not referring to the economy, which everyone knows is disappointing. I am not referring to bail-outs or big business, anti-war or pro-military campaigns, the prevalence in media to focus on celebrity and drama over hard-hitting investigative reporting. I am not talking about the fact that I hear more about politicians' sex scandals than I do about the laws and policies they fight for. No, I am referring to something much more personal and human, something that makes me wonder if our country has the courage to place value on the people who live here. I am talking about violence.
This weekend, two days before Independence Day, my husband went to play soccer in South Central Los Angeles. While he was there, he witnessed a horrifying act of violence. Four young teenagers jumped another young teenager and beat him nearly to death, throwing him to the ground, kicking his ribs, stomping on his head, with no regard for human life or consequence. While they beat him, nearly 100 people stood and watched in broad daylight, frozen. Not one person stood up to stop the fight. After the young men left the victim, presumably for dead, two middle aged women rushed over to help him, and got him up after about fifteen minutes.
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