Yesterday, July 4th, was “Independence Day” in the U.S.A. and it is a hugely popular holiday for patriotism and nationalism and grilling food and fireworks. Because we’re Americans: that’s how we roll!
There really is no other quintessentially American holiday quite like this one; Thanksgiving comes close, but the Fourth of July is in the middle of Summer so it is awash in a vibrant, sunny feeling of optimism and renewal that the winter holidays can’t match.
I won’t go so far to say that vicious politics are put aside and everyone holds hands singing “This Land is Your Land” together, but honestly it’s as close as we get. On the Fourth of July everyone is a patriot, and assumes everyone else is a patriot, and we all agree that red, white and blue is a totally fantastic color scheme for ALL THE AMERICAN THINGS! We have a bit of a sense of humor about the Fourth of July because we know it’s a throwback and kind of dorky but no one cares: there are hamburgers to grill! Fireworks to set off!
I suppose this is why it was a favorite holiday of my Father’s. As a military man he probably had quite a number of outrageous Fourth of July celebrations over the course of his life. What I remember of him in retirement is the joy he took in celebrating the day. We never went anywhere to watch fireworks, I don’t know why (although I can guess). But it was a day of (surprise!) grilling meat and (usually) John Wayne movie marathons capped off by watching the Boston Pops special on PBS. Kind of lame, in retrospect, but it was a day of quiet celebration around our house.
I’m left, now, with a deep aversion to the Fourth of July holiday. It was never my holiday, because I didn’t actually care too much, but it was Father’s, and we celebrated it for him. He’s been dead a long time and as an atheist I don’t believe his spirit is hanging around watching the celebration. He had his celebrations in life, for better or for worse, and not in death.
So it is a hard day for me. It always will be. My first Fourth of July alone, in 1996, was devastating because it was the first time I really felt alone, even though it had been over two months since Father had died. Now it is 2012 and I’m not devastated, but I remain heartbroken.
I’m not sad because my father isn’t in heaven, or isn’t a ghost wandering around to comfort me; many religious people think that is the source of my unhappiness. They reason that if I could just believe that Father is still around here, somewhere, somehow, I would grieve less.
I disagree. Nothing I believe about a mythical “eternal spirit” changes the fact that Father died in 1996, and I am alone. To pretend otherwise is to efface the monumental impact of his death and personally I find that a disservice to both of us.
I would rather be sad and grieve for my father, whom I loved, than try to alleviate that ache with ghost stories. I would rather face that pain than pretend it doesn’t hurt.
My father’s memory deserves that much, at least.
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