July 4th Isn’t What It Used to Be

The 4th of July has long been my favorite holiday, but it’s not what it used to be. I viewed it from an immigrant’s perspective only and marveled at how my parents immigrated to Philadelphia from Calcutta, India with two young children in tow. They built a life here and prospered. People always talked about how much they gained, giving nary a thought to what they left behind. They straddled two worlds and raised a family with no help, no support, no one to lean on, all in a foreign land where the rules weren’t written for people who look like us. 

I remember my parents studying for the U.S. citizenship exam. I remember my mom being on TV when she took her oath of citizenship in our nation’s capital. It moved me then, and it moves me still. Our family tradition has been watching the swearing-in ceremony at the state Capitol every year on this day. It’s incredibly touching, and yes, I weep. I watch white, brown, and black bodies rescind their countries of origin to become American. They embrace the hope and optimism as well as the ugly underbelly of our country. But like my family, they still choose America. And we don’t take that for granted. I’m not about to drop some country music lyrics on you here (you know the song of which I speak), but as an immigrant, I see my Americanness as something special because I wasn’t born into it. 

It poses different challenges, of course. I’ve been othered in America because we equate “American” with “white.” It’s changing, at a rucksacking snail’s pace. Yet the tenor of the country is shifting. Something has ignited in us, and we are poised for change at last. We will hold brands and elected officials accountable to not stop at platitudes and statements of solidarity. Tearing down a monument is just the beginning. 

And so this year, I hung my bunting. I put small flags in my flower pots. One son helped me, mostly to humor me, while the other is disgusted by my show of American pride. “How can you even celebrate this year, Mom?” he asked me with understandable disdain. I struggled as I opened my box of 4th of July decorations. It doesn’t feel right. Yet there it is, because I want to remember why I love this holiday and all the idealism it brings as an immigrant to this country. I do, however, want to add a postscript to my porch to tell the world that we’re not those people. It’s an incongruous sight indeed to see our yard with its peace pole, “First they came for the immigrants…” sign, driveway chalk that says “No Justice No Peace and #BLM,” and the bunting hung from the porch. I am not proud of my country, but it’s not the first time. America has broken my heart many times, but it’s punctuated ever so viciously in this moment. We are broken. We need to dismantle systems that were created for oppression, and I think it’s finally happening. This pandemic has nudged us to realize that going back to normal isn’t so great after all.

Like so many others, I’m realizing how much of what I learned were whitewashed lies. I’ve been reading and listening and watching to educate myself, to untangle lies and reframe narratives from different perspectives. My teenage sons are my best teachers. I’m shifting my views and taking action to be anti-racist. Resting on my immigrant laurels is wrong because we, brown people from India, would not be here in this country if it weren’t for the civil rights movement. We are here on the backs of our Black brothers and sisters who did, and continue to do, the heavy lifting. Indians themselves perpetuate the model minority myth and eschew the truth of our own immigration. We too fall into and give life to the American caste system. Funnily enough, when I was in school kids (and their parents) used to tell me what a terrible country India is because of its caste system. I pointed to racism in this country as a point of comparison. Yes, I was precocious, even as a child. And it pains me to think how I was treated by so many of my childhood friends’ parents. If only I had known the term “microaggression” then, I could have at least assigned words to my feelings.

Yet, America is still my home. And I hope it’s the end of America as I know it.

This is where I can use my voice without fear of retribution. I can vocalize my anger, my fear, my frustration. I can go to protests with my family to stand up for justice, whether it’s school desegregation, women’s rights, gun control, immigrant and refugee rights, or defunding the police. Until recently, we marched without fear of tear gas and rubber bullets and arrest. The wounds of unrest are oozing in my community, and there’s nary a person in power speaking up. And so we lean on community organizers who are gaining power as we hunger for the trappings of moral leadership. Grassroots organizing is not uniquely American, but our ability to speak up and peacefully protest are. We stand in defiance of all that is wrong with our country. 

I’m no longer looking at July 4th with the myopic lens I wore for so many years. I see my role in perpetuating the narrative of white supremacy and the patriarchy, the two very things I spend energy to topple and dismantle. I have no blind allegiance to America, and have no patience for false patriotism that manifests in wearing a flag pin or draping myself in our stars and stripes (against flag code, by the way). I don’t don rose-colored glasses, and in all my years traveling and living abroad, I was the first to admit to America’s flaws and failures. We have not created a country where all men are created equal. That statement alone is problematic on so many levels. I’m going to keep fighting and speaking up. I’m here for this, and I’m raising the next generation of resistors. My son told me that while America is a pretty terrible place under the current regime and all it’s unleashed, we can make it better because we have a voice and a vote. Here’s hoping my sons’ America is a more just, equitable nation.

And since we can’t safely gather this year, let’s use our energy and resources to support black-owned businesses and donate to causes centered on racial, socioeconomic, and environmental justice. Above all else, consider your own biases and actions. What steps can we take to dismantle what’s breaking our hearts and ripping apart our souls? Healing these deep, heinous wounds is incumbent upon us all.  Vice has some spot-on ideas to celebrate the 4th of July when America is a constant disappointment. 

Resistance is patriotic. 

Dissent builds democracy.

Power to the people.