Photo: “Be Afraid” (2005) By Ken DeRoux, Acrylic and Mixed Media on Canvas, at the Museum of the North, University of Alaska Fairbanks
For the last few Fourth of July celebrations, I’ve headed to Mattapoisett to do a five-mile fundraiser run. The first time I committed to the run, I did so because my cousin is one of the sponsors—and, I thought it was a 5K. The last two miles on a sweltering summer day tested me.
The cool thing about the race—it feels like the whole town comes out to support the runners. It’s a picture-perfect small New England town, tucked around a harbor. Neighbors of all generations come out and cheer in front of their weathered-shingled cottages. They clap. They wave flags. They put out their sprinklers so runners can pass under them. They hold garden hoses and offer a refreshing spritz. Some play patriotic music; others offer classic rock.
It’s a giant celebration—of small towns, of our independence, of our togetherness, of our willingness to cheer for and support one another. On the long flat stretches. And for the slog on the slow inclines that steal the breath from laboring lungs.
This summer I’m not going to Mattapoisett. I just returned from a visit to my family in Texas, so I’ve had my COVID test and I’m sticking close to home. And stealing breath from laboring lungs has taken on a whole new, life-threatening meaning.
This Fourth of July, instead of running, I did some reading, thinking about our country, her independence—and on whose bravery, sacrifices and backs she was built.
I read this brutal, riveting, heart-rending piece, “The Cursed Platoon,” by Greg Jaffe in The Washington Post. It tells the story of a commander who failed his troops and a commander in chief, in my opinion, who dishonored those soldiers and all who serve. I encourage you to take the time to read it.
“According to Census 2000, the active-duty military population in the United States was about 1.2 million, roughly 0.5 percent of the population 18 and older.” A precious small minority. Their lives and troubles, and those of their families, usually unfold on bases beyond the view of the civilian population, so it is tough to know the sacrifices those who wear the uniform and their families make.
I have had a front-row seat to the military life since birth, first as the daughter of a career soldier and later as an international correspondent covering conflict and its aftermath. I never met my great uncle Charlie because he didn’t return from Anzio. I’ve known soldiers who returned, yet never fully, wholly, and suffered in silence. My friend and consummate infantryman and soldier, Rob Taylor, took his life on President’s Day this year. And most of his platoon showed up from points around the globe to honor him and take his body home.
In my adult life and career, I have been proud to be a member of another tribe that serves, often under threat and duress, running toward the fire and gunfire, their contributions and dedication often overlooked or denigrated. Journalists make up the Fourth Estate in our republic. They go where others won’t and bear witness. They hold those in power accountable.
The work of dedicated journalists is a calling—and a call to duty. Just as those in uniform, journalists and their families make incredible sacrifices to serve the public interest. They are maligned, threatened—in public, anonymously on social media, by the man in the White House. And yet, they do not fall back; they press on.
Several of my journalist friends have been killed in the line of duty: Ilaria Alpi, ambushed and slaughtered in Somalia; Raffaele Ciriello, killed by Israel gunfire in Ramallah; and, David Gilkey, my dear friend and colleague, targeted and killed on assignment in Afghanistan.
And there are those who were forced into servitude, stolen from their homes, on whose backs and labor our country garnered great wealth. Robbing generations of indigenous peoples and enslaved peoples of their rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, we built a strong nation and economy that became a “superpower.” We stole the land, liberty and labor on which we built our greatness.
I read and then listened to a reading of Frederick Douglass’ “What to a Slave is the Fourth of July?”
I heard a piece on NPR that was a rhetorical analysis of Douglass’ words and text by Yale history professor David Blight, “What The Fourth of July Meant to Those Enslaved in the U.S.” Here’s the link. Afterward, I decided I needed to read the essay again. Then I watched a piece with five descendants of Douglass as they recited his words (link here.) The words carry across the generations and call to us now.
We are living in extraordinary and challenging times, historic times. The pandemic has given us time to remember our neighbors, among them the valiant healthcare workers who risk their lives to save others; to remember the preciousness of kindness and the value of a kind word.
And in the middle of the pandemic, a scream rose up, across miles and generations, after we watched a police officer, Derek Chauvin, suffocate a Black man, George Floyd, stealing his breath, stealing his life and his future.
Americans took to the streets and took over streets, raised their voices, screamed and cried in rage, demanding justice, demanding change, demanding to be seen and heard—and valued, as human beings.
For me, this Fourth of July feels like a reckoning and a calling.
Yes, remember where we came from: the good, the bad and the ugly of our red, white and blue.
We are in the crucible. We have some sweltering summer days ahead that will surely test us.
Happy Fourth of July. Power to the People.
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