I’m not bothered by it. Really. I find plenty of ways to spend my day as I listen to neighbors laughing and chattering boisterously while the aroma of burgers and steaks sneaks in through my window.
But there are moments when I catch myself wondering why I’m not invited to more Fourth of July cookouts.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m unspeakably grateful that those who know me well enough have finally stopped putting me in the awkward position of a) pretending to be excited by a game of cornhole while we whoop and holler each time someone throws a bag of corn at a hole; or b) frantically search my mental database for a previous engagement/excuse that forces me to—regrettably— decline the invitation to a crowded backyard with inebriated strangers, only to fail and then plainly and painfully accept the appointment while then calculating how long I will have to stay before I can slip away and get back to my place to read in peace.
I don’t think there was any particular moment so much as word just started getting around.
“Hey, man, was Davalos at your party? Did he bring everybody down or was it just us?. Oh. That’s what we figured. Yeah, I don’t know if I want him coming back next time.”
It’s not that I trap and burden guests with tales of my latest medical adventures or beg them to tell me what they think will happen to them when they die (I save those conversation starters for birthdays and Christmas). I simply ask a question I think is relevant, revealing and, ideally, useful to me in helping me shape my own philosophy:
What does it mean to be an American?
From grade school on we’re taught that Independence Day, July 4, was the celebration of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. (It’s not until later, either in university or through independent reading that one learns that even then not all of the colonists here were on board with breaking off from the monarchy and Great Britain.)
And while our British friends jokingly—I think—congratulate us on this nation’s birthday with “Happy Treason Day, Ungrateful Colonists” the sentiment still prompts a fascinating question that, to me, doesn’t seem to have one answer: What does it mean to be American?
The initial answer usually involves the phrase “citizen of the greatest country in the world” but it’s when I press for more clarification that blood slowly drains from sunburned faces and their eyes glaze over not from alcohol poisoning but because all their interest and civility has disappeared. What do you mean by great? Great compared to what? To who? Do you mean all time or modern era? Do you mean for all citizens or naturalized? What about legal residents? Are they part of the fabric of the greatest country in the world or are they something else?
What does being American mean and what makes this country so great?
It’s a question not many seem to want to ponder during backyard cookouts on the Fourth of July. At least not with me around.
Carlos,
Please come to our party next 4th of July at our house! We will have plenty of hot dogs and bratwurst! 🙂