Diary of a 4th of July


7/4/2016: Diary of a 4th of July

Worked (all felines: Izzy, Jack, Piper, Clark, Lucy, Darko, Todd, Burt, Mica—love them all); Graham and Lauren come over, Ellen and Julia join, Ellen’s friend ending his Ramadan; foster kittens, hard lemonade, shitty Malbec, salsa, chips, guacamole, ohdeargodwhydidIeatsomuch; Ellen/Julia to meet her friend, Livy/Lauren to little park, pepper gel and caps; neighbors’ fireworks go far above parched trees;

walk to Sugar House Park, blanket says “Dream”, American “pride” bittersweet: injustice, racism, homelessness, hopelessness, the fantasy of believing in a dying “dream”; cars, cars, cars, boys singing to “Get Low”, fleece blanket making me sweat, can’t reach Julia who’s already there; see James and Indy, find a spot, then another; see Kerry; fireworks start, music starts, same old music, same old American livefeed; so many people, so many many people, fireworks into the sky, blankets, glowsticks, children, drones; weed smoke;

a baby to our left is handed to his daddy, who hugs him and lifts him into the air;


sky lights up, silhouettes of so many people, so many many people (why do we come here/why not watch out of the crowds from down the street?); Livy and Lauren lying down, friendship, the new generation, complicated, wise, (do they feel American pride?); people gazing up,


lights, pictures in the glow; the daddy speaks to his group, another language/Middle Eastern?, the group laughs, mostly men, on blankets, two feet away, the baby handed back to mom and she is dressed to match the baby in red, white and blue.


And I’m staring at them, and can’t look away, for there is family and language and forgiveness of xenophobes, braving traffic and crowds and heat so they can share “America” with their baby

And it’s why we’re all here; because the mom in tan shorts and the baby in American flag Navy and my girls and my friends are children to this new nation;

and the sky sparkles as we all sit together.

And when the last of the fireworks fade, we clap and collect our things, and within time spent in the space of each other’s ideals, walk home in the smoky air dream of a confused nation rising as one into the hungover dawn of itself.

[Footnote: Because you can never find parking at Sugar House Park for fireworks, we had walked there so when fireworks ended, we all walked to our separate homes and—carrying our supplies—I was almost home when I felt something pinch me And realized that when the Dream blanket was laying on the grass of Sugar House Park, a bee got caught in it and in the course of my 25 minute walk home, had wiggled its way to my skin to sting me. It hurt but obv wasn’t insurmountable but more to the point was a very potent metaphor for what I had processed that evening]

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