boom
Eight years ago, I wrote a sarcastic piece for the college paper about how, in Albuquerque, "Independence Day" rougly translated to "blow shit up." I went on to postulate if you asked any rube standing in line at the fireworks stand just over the city limits on one of the pueblo reservations just as to why we blew up shit on July 4, he would answer, simply, "because."
At the time, I thought I was being adorably, precociously cynical.
Now? Just cynical.
Today, as I stood in line behind an endless parade of Anglo families with their grubby grubs and their flag shirts and their magnetic-yellow-get-r-done-dubya-ribboned minivans at a fast food eatery within the confines of our master-planned development of microsized McMansions, I wondered just how many of them could name a single person who had signed the Declaration of Independence or could even identify just which document that was. I wondered how many of them understood the significance of July 4, 1776, or, really, how many even cared.
Which is the point where I became truly depressed. From where I stand in suburbia, the climate is thus: A'mur'ca's A'mur'ca and God shed His grace on thee, end of story. As far as these people are concerned, on July 4, 1776, the patriotic Easter Bunny delivered us the whole chocolate basket: fifty United States (plus the territories of Guam and Puerto Rico), the star spangled banner, the second amendment, Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Dubya; a country dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal, unless they voted for the other guy, in which case, they're traitors. Ship 'em to Gitmo!
I don't suppose it helps that I spent the weekend devouring "Assassination Vacation" by Sarah Vowell and it's been a weekend-long walk down memory lane of the American History AP exam (which? Total pwnage on my part, thank you, thank you) from a decade ago.
The combined experience is enough to leave me reaching for the real estate classifieds. Moving won't solve the overreaching problems we're facing today as a nation, but at the very least it might cut down on my Tums intake and I'll take my victories where I can find them.
Happy Independence Day, you guys. I'm damn proud to be free.
At the time, I thought I was being adorably, precociously cynical.
Now? Just cynical.
Today, as I stood in line behind an endless parade of Anglo families with their grubby grubs and their flag shirts and their magnetic-yellow-get-r-done-dubya-ribboned minivans at a fast food eatery within the confines of our master-planned development of microsized McMansions, I wondered just how many of them could name a single person who had signed the Declaration of Independence or could even identify just which document that was. I wondered how many of them understood the significance of July 4, 1776, or, really, how many even cared.
Which is the point where I became truly depressed. From where I stand in suburbia, the climate is thus: A'mur'ca's A'mur'ca and God shed His grace on thee, end of story. As far as these people are concerned, on July 4, 1776, the patriotic Easter Bunny delivered us the whole chocolate basket: fifty United States (plus the territories of Guam and Puerto Rico), the star spangled banner, the second amendment, Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Dubya; a country dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal, unless they voted for the other guy, in which case, they're traitors. Ship 'em to Gitmo!
I don't suppose it helps that I spent the weekend devouring "Assassination Vacation" by Sarah Vowell and it's been a weekend-long walk down memory lane of the American History AP exam (which? Total pwnage on my part, thank you, thank you) from a decade ago.
The combined experience is enough to leave me reaching for the real estate classifieds. Moving won't solve the overreaching problems we're facing today as a nation, but at the very least it might cut down on my Tums intake and I'll take my victories where I can find them.
Happy Independence Day, you guys. I'm damn proud to be free.
2 Comments:
Jesus bless Suburbia.
A place where He probably would never actually want to go.
They'd hate him for being Arabic.
As cynical as you might sound, you're probably right. I was just talking to the guy making my new helm (he's finishing his Masters, poly-sci I belive, and your neighbors would never guess it from his Native American appearance) about how 70% of the people who voted in 2004 couldn't name the Vice President. :|
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