The Grandest Fourth Of July - 1976 - Page 2

It was the single-most splendid day of my life as an American. I've since measured every patriotic event against that day, and all have fallen depressingly short with their histrionic, half-hearted, hyped-up attempts at externally prompting that which can only be internally felt.

Years later, I would send my children from by my side to greet their father upon his return from six months in Iraq and Liberia. I always made sure I was last to greet him because my hugs took the longest. Not long before that deployment, I'd sent them to greet him upon his return from the Adriatic Sea and Croatia. Before that, Turkey, Norway, and Okinawa. Before the planes would land or the busses would pull in, the Commands would have set up an area for families to gather, enjoy refreshments, and listen to patriotic music.

While parents, grandparents, and children thought little of it and in fact enjoyed it, I wasn't the only spouse who thought the playing of patriotic music was not only annoying, but also inappropriate.

The reunion of service members with their spouses is not a celebration of this country's founding and its freedoms. The reunion is the final chapter in a love story. We the spouses and service members endure indefinable hardships while we are separated. We worry for each other, writing thousands of words back and forth, trying desperately to keep it light and loving when the realities from both sides of the deployment are ever-looming. What should be played at reunions is "Nights in White Satin."

Whether it was the piercing fluorescent lights of the hospital room where a severely injured child lay or the bursts of blinding flash from roadside bombs, what we celebrate when we are finally able to be with each other is our undying love and dedication to each other. The country got what it wanted; now, it can bloody well wait while my children get to know the smell that is uniquely their father, and he and I get to hold and be held by the only person we've come to love.

This, I suddenly realize, is the unbridgeable gap between that deeply touching moment in Cessna stadium and every Fourth of July celebration I've attended since: love. The day is now dressed up in red, white, and blue, forced upon us like some sort of cough medicine. Songs that used to define and inspire have since been replaced by glorified jingles.

Flags fly and so few really know why. The Preamble is recited and so few really know what the words mean. Being American is no longer a choice made or a lifestyle second to none. It's been made out to be an unmovable solid when nothing is more fluid and mobile than those who made it all possible and the things they did to make their dreams a reality — our reality. Our homage is obligatory. What could be more loveless?

Article Author: Diana Hartman

Diana (nee Gulick) Hartman is the Culture and Tastes Editor for Blogcritics.org. She is a freelance writer, mother of three, and a (Ret.) US Marine spouse. She is a Wichita, Kansas native, having also lived in the California desert, Southern California, and eastern North Carolina. …

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