The Fourth of July and Freedom
Happy Independence Day! Today, the United States of America celebrates sovereignty.
This year feels different than previous Fourth of July celebrations and for obvious reasons: more political speeches, more celebrations, and more flags raised in celebration of a milestone 250-year birthday.
I got up a little early this morning to catch the ships coming up the Narrows under the Verrazzano Bridge as they made their way to Manhattan. Ships from everywhere in the world, including Italy, and one in particular, named after the explorer whose name this country bears, Amerigo Vespucci. Legend has it that my late uncle, who served in the Italian Navy, spent some time on that ship, probably in a ceremonial way.
People who came to see the ships seemed curiously excited about this incredible sight. Some were patriots. Many were immigrants. Many were both. A couple in front of me, holding hands, were speaking Russian or Ukrainian; many Asians, now the largest demographic in my neighborhood, largely came too.
Fifty years ago, I was in my mother’s womb, a few months from my debut into the world. I am sure I heard the fireworks as I floated in placenta!
I would soon after get to experience a shot at what people call The American Dream as a first-generation American. And I would say, so far, so good. But not without a sense of something missing.
I have always had a lingering grief throughout my life related to separation from my ancestral land of Puglia, one that I only visited once in spite of going to the parts of Italy many times, and I am so grateful for that opportunity.
Nonetheless, American History was a favorite subject of mine in school, and the first hint of my writing talent was actually connected to my family’s immigrant past: two separate essays written in grade school and high school on the value of immigrants in America won writing contests.
This grief, however, has been placated by the belief that my soul’s decision to incarnate on American soil was intentional (actually, I think it’s all pre-determined, but that is another conversation). That, in spite of this lingering hunger to connect to my ancestry, there is a reason I am here. And there were signs along the way to remind me.
The block I grew up on had a home on the corner that was called “The White House” because it looked like a smaller version of the real deal. It intersected with another street called Independence Avenue. And one of the first streets my father lived on as a bachelor was called President Street in downtown Brooklyn.
Politics also fascinated me as a kid. I would record on audiocassette the State of the Union speeches given by then-president George Bush (they were so boring, but I somehow felt drawn to record them. (In retrospect, I think this was practice in spotting liars, who, after some time observing political campaigns, I later felt most politicians to be).
The word freedom also fascinated me. What exactly is it?
During road trips as a kid, I would delight in looking outside the car window in rural America. Flags perched on every porch, this city kid thought, this must be freedom. You’re left alone, nobody is bothering you. No neighbors blasting their radio on the stoops of Brooklyn when you are trying to sleep. No bombs going off like in those war-torn countries I learned about in Social Studies. The song of birds, maybe, and barbecues on some distant lawn.
As a grew up, and now approach what Dante would call “the middle of the journey of my life,” I came to realize that freedom is being able to control my mind. To discern what thoughts and behaviors are mine from what I have inherited from school, family, and other aspects outside of myself. And it’s an ongoing process, being able to separate the wheat from the chaff, and to, in Walt Whitman’s words, “dismiss whatever insults your own soul.”
The Declaration of Independence, which amazingly preceded the Constitution by thirteen years, was a first major step in our country’s individuation, the process (coined by Carl Jung) of becoming your true self. Interestingly, I had the opportunity to see, in person, both an original copy of the Declaration of Independence and Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass, as separate and incredible exhibits at the New York Public Library.
The Declaration of Independence at the New York Public Library.
Leaves of Grass at the New York Public Library.
And those opportunities were lamp posts in my own American experience.
So, freedom is the opportunity to be the best version of yourself.
The United States has undoubtedly lifted millions of lives for the better, and so, this experiment of a nation has already made significant progress in achieving what I believe to be its divine purpose. But it is still an imperfect one, with a stained past (and present). Slavery, unnecessary wars, “fake food,” government contamination of nature, and now, AI and technocracy loom. Today, there are divisive arguments between the political “Left” and “Right” (the Founding Fathers must be rolling in their graves) about what we are celebrating on this 250-year birthday.
I think it’s impossible to weigh the good vs. the bad. Just a hope that another milestone has been reached on the evolutionary path towards greater freedom.
And that is enough to celebrate.
