When I was a kid, I used to love the 4th of July. My parents raised me to be a patriotic American, one who loves his country even despite her flaws. Every 4th, we'd pack the whole family up and have a picnic at Stone Mountain Park. We'd eat sandwiches, toss a frisbee, play gin, and wait for the sun to go down. Then came the laser show, one which featured outlining, then animating, the Confederate generals carved into the rock (this is the South, and, unfortunately, Confederate pride will never go out of style). Then came the fireworks. A gigantic, ear-splitting fireworks display, made louder by the soundwave echo slamming against the mountain, bound for our tender eardrums. It was beautiful, true rocket's red glare and mid-air bomb bursts.
These days I dread the 4th. It's not for the jingoism I was too young to understand as a child, which irks me, but I try not to let other's infantile politics change the spirit of the holiday for me. The real reason is I'm not much for fireworks anymore. I haven't been since I came back from Iraq.
When I came back from my first tour of duty in Iraq, I spent a Veteran's day cookout with my uncle and his friends. My uncle's friends lived in Santa Monica at the time. The day was gorgeous, even by Southern California standards, so when my uncle and I took our leave of the festivities we decided to pass a moment on a bench and enjoy the day. We sat, chatting and soaking up the sun, when a car backfired.
I dove for the ground immediately, and only just regained my senses in time to keep from falling from the bench. My breath quickened, my pulse raced. My uncle, God bless him, knew what was going on immediately, and began to soothe me. It only took a moment for me to regain my composure, but even in Santa Monica, and even though I had seen no combat to that point, the stress of constant vigilance had followed me back to my civilian life.
I later learned what incoming fire sounds like (it's a frission, a small sonic boom that sizzles the air around it). A car backfire and a gunshot really sound nothing alike. Yet every time an old wheezing jalopy rolls by, I become uneasy.
The same is true for fireworks. Not the big, professional kind. While I don't enjoy them nearly as much as I used to, I can observe them with no apprehension. It's the amateur fireworks I can't stand. The whistling, popping, exploding-at-random-intervals kind that rub my nerves raw. All of my neighbors, it seems, are fireworks enthusiasts, and every 4th they come out of the woodwork. The night's events bother my dog less than me, while I spend the evening on pins and needles, jumping at every explosion, transported for a split-second back to that hellhole until I remind myself that I am home, that I am safe, that I survived.
If you know a veteran of this or any other war, take a moment tomorrow to make sure that they are all right, that the images of horror and death don't weight too heavy on them. That they are as close to normal as they'll ever be.
It saddens me. I love this country, and I think its birth should be celebrated every year. But I know that each time I'll have to revisit the moments in my life that I wish I could forget. There's still a part of me that loves the holiday. As Mark Twain was determined to survive until he saw the return of Hailey's Comet, I am determined to survive until this country's tri-centennial. I'll be 93. Hopefully the fireworks won't bother me by then.
I doubt it.