Filed under: Uncategorized
“Long is the way; And hard, that out of hell leads up to light.”
–John Milton
there was cordite on the highway that night.
it was the fourth of july, and the fireworks were breaking across the washington monument. like waves in some hazy, murky ocean. standing on a beltway that isn’t moving. a glorious clog in the arteries of the nation’s capital.
jesus, it was like a sauna.
i know that i’m a bit behind the times, talking about the fourth of july on the tenth — it’s a bit like asking what all the fuss is about on the 15th of november. marveling at the silence, and wondering why the guns have fallen silent. but i’ve finally had enough time to organize my thoughts about the nation’s birthday. she turned 231 while i looked on. flag-soaked fervor and all down the boulevards and avenues of this magnificently frustrating city.
the streets were strange that morning. i had expected tumult and uproar, and i was greeted with a somber, almost sleepy afternoon when i woke up. it was mercilessly hot. and humid enough to make walking to the metro station feel like swimming in soup. maybe the heat subdued the crowds, but i avoided the major buildings and institutions that day — i didn’t feel up to the chaos that i’m certain had descended upon the capitol, the smithsonian, and the like.
it’s strange to feel utterly unpatriotic on independence day, smack in the middle of the nation’s capital.
perhaps that’s why i’ve waited to write this post; to give myself a week to reflect on how it feels to experience the madness of nationalism first-hand. i’m cursed by that strange disease that seems to be disguised in the auspices of my generation. an apathy of political devotion; a derision of the status quo, but a helplessness or unwillingness to fight against the institution. in short, had the 1960s been dominated by quaaludes instead of psychotropes, perhaps i would have some basis for these musings.
what are we celebrating? a cadre of rich, european plantation owners who didn’t want to pay taxes? a piece of cloth that flaps in the breeze, or crackles with flame? american boots that are clogged in the blood and mud of foreign countries? a presidency that has been, by most accounts, an unqualified disaster?
i’m celebrating what i saw on the freeway that night.
my uncle’s family and i, flying down maine avenue, towards the fourteenth street bridge. and then across the radio, the news that the bridge had been closed for the duration of the fireworks. we had been on our way to some sort of vantage point to watch the conflagration — but now we were trapped deep beneath underpasses. the traffic had reached an utter standstill — with no hope of relief until the fireworks had ceased. a row of office buildings obscured our view of the fireworks from beneath the concrete. orange and red bled through the spaces of the buildings, and the windows of the offices, as the fireworks began in earnest behind them.
as if drawn by a shared communion of common sense, we streamed from our cars. all fools caught in a moment of serendipitous annoyance. all attempting to shake the shackles. walking slowly, some of us jogging, made our way up from the low dip in the freeway. past the steel and glass giants that flanked us on either side — stumbling across cracked pavement until the buildings and on-ramps disappeared. there was only the night sky and the fireworks. the sky, murky from the humidity that refused to yield ground, and the fireworks exploding in relative glory.
and then we all simply stood and watched, in quiet appreciation.
men, women; blacks, whites, hispanics; children, grandparents; drunks, cops, students, interns and parasites. everyone stopped and watched. appreciating something that they could neither see or place their finger on. an abstract feeling of belonging and safety pervaded the moment.
it’s rare that you feel utterly alone, and surrounded at the same time.
would that we all had the sense to leave our cars behind, and simply walk the path that has laid before us. to not wait in the darkness, and watch the auras of beauty — instead of pursuing the real thing.
would that i.
