Because I am a pretentious stickler, I should note that, while we typically celebrate our nation's inception on July 4, the day of the final signing of the Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen United States of America in 1776, the nation arguably began on July 2, 1776, the day the Second Continental Congress held its unanimous vote in favor of the motion on independence of the thirteen colonies. At any rate, my celebration began on July 4, because that was the first day I had off from work.
The celebration began at 10am in downtown Boston, Massachusetts, birthplace of the American Revolution. I followed the liberty-hungry throngs to the Old State House, built in 1713, and former home to the oldest elected legislature still operating in America. Now it serves as a museum as well as the top covering to a subway station.
It was on the east balcony of this building that Colonel Thomas Crafts bellowed aloud the aforementioned Declaration on July 18, 1776, to excited Bostonians. This was a populace that had been occupied by British troops until about four months prior, having endured a long siege during which food and provisions in the town were scant.
The first person we saw was not Colonel Crafts but rather TV's Craig Ferguson, whom I had just seen the evening before at the rehearsal concert for the Boston Pops/CBS Fourth of July Spectacular. The Scottish-born Ferguson, a newly-minted U.S. citizen, was assisting in the reading of the Pledge of Allegiance, to the flag to which he now pledges his allegiance.
At least that's what I assume was going on. Unlike in 1776, when the proclamation was powered only by the strength of Colonel Crafts' voice, in 2008 they had an electronic sound system set up which was so bad, at least from where I was standing, that I could only understand a word here and there of what was being said. Anyway, after the brief appearance by Mr. Ferguson, a trio of uniformed gentlemen preceded to the microphone to deliver a long historical treatise that no one could understand. Following this, the man in the middle read aloud the Unanimous Declaration to an attentive crowd that for the most part didn't know what was being read, except for those of us who could follow along on our printed copies.
Finally Independence was declared, and the people went forth joyously to celebrate their hard-won liberty.
This being an important day, there was a short parade leading away from the Old State House. In all it was probably much like the parades of the day, starting with the regular military guard.
These were followed by the non-professional, yet impeccably uniformed and well drilled Middlesex County Volunteers fife and drum corps.
And following them, the decidedly less formal yet still patriotic Billerica militia, a ragtag group that probably better resembled the actual troops who would have been fighting the redcoats at the time. They sure did like to fire their muskets, which made them a crowd pleaser.
The parade led the crowd off to the east, probably to some other independence-related event, but I was headed south, specifically to South Station.
This brought me down the new Rose Kennedy Greenway and also allowed me to pay a visit to the Federal Reserve Bank of Boston, to remind me of the economic freedom that we had to fight to obtain. I felt especially heartened by the recent anti-terrorism landscaping work that had been performed.
But South Station was not my final destination. Just like George Washington and his Continental Army following the evacuation of the British from Boston, I was marching south to New York City. (On the bus ride, I was reading 1776, but I suppose that's pretty obvious. That's historian David McCullough's 1776, not to be confused with the musical, 1776! which is also pretty awesome.)
There was not much to see when I got in, except that apparently, New Yorkers celebrate our independence by fleeing town. I suppose that would be an apropos tradition, since the British army was presumably on their way to lay siege at the time.
That evening, though, I went to watch the fireworks display over the East River.
It was a delightful show, of course, but I've personally never been a big fan of the elegant, choreographed pyrotechnics set to music. I've always been more keen on the haphazard, erratically-fired explosives display, the kind that makes your eardrums ring and makes you feel just a little bit uncertain of your own safety. I guess I think a good fireworks show should make you feel as if you're really in the midst of a Revolutionary War battle. If you don't feel somewhat compelled to seek cover, you can't really appreciate what it all means.
Then came July 5, the day when the Continental Congress sobered up to what they had done and began to wonder whether they were about to be hanged, or worse. Too bad these guys weren't available at the time to help them get over it.
The big plan for that day was a trip to visit yet another American landmark, Yankee Stadium. Oddly, the crowd in the Bronx seemed slightly more excited than the crowd that came to hear the reading of one of the most important documents in human history the previous day.
It was a very rainy day, but the weather cleared up just in time to roll off the tarps and get a game on.
I was right there with the bleacher crowd at a Red Sox-Yankees game, and I was a little nervous about how I'd be received in my Boston hat.
But in the end I had nothing to worry about, as it turned out to be a pretty well-integrated crowd, with Boston and New York hats sitting side by side. This was even true of myself and my companion, whom I have to thank for the ticket in the first place.
It actually turned out to be a great game, and since it was my first game at Yankee Stadium, I was treated to the ritual of the infield crew dancing to The Village People's timeless hit, "YMCA". If I didn't know better, I'd think that at least some of those guys were in fact staying at the Y.
What was largely a pitcher's duel ended in a 2-1 Yankees win after Mariano Rivera managed to give up a run and load the bases, then proceed to get out of the ninth with a save. I shared the disappointment of the fellow faithful, but I suppose the Sox can't win them all, that just wouldn't be any fun. Well, on second thought, maybe it would.
After the game was over it was still white and hot in the city, and still fairly empty.
The next stop was a garden in Madison Square, which is not to be confused with Madison Square Garden. I got to pay a visit to Chester A. Arthur, the New York machine politician who became the unlikely President of the United States following the assassination of James Garfield. I don't know much about President Arthur, so just go ahead and read Sarah Vowell's Assassination Vacation and insert any one of her witty observations here.
For New Yorkers in the summer, Madison Square means the Shake Shack, a very popular outdoor eatery specializing in burgers and frozen custard. Here again we benefited from the mass exodus and had a much shorter-than-normal wait. I felt rather patriotic drinking a vanilla shake and eating a burger topped with a deep-fried, cheese-stuffed portabella mushroom cap. Or maybe the patriotism was a result of the nearby glow of the Empire State Building.
The next day, July 6, I can't say I know what our forefathers were doing. I was on my way to Chinatown, which I guess occupies its own special place in Americana. But on the way, I got a chance to honor the independent judiciary that makes our country so great. And I was reminded that one of the reasons why our judicial system works as well as it does is that the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups. (Those would be the police who investigate crimes, and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders.)
In its own way, Chinatown really does represent America because it is all about freedoms. Among those are the freedom to appropriate copyrighted characters to promote independently-run businesses.
There is also the freedom ... OK, I've got nothing for this one.
Later that day I celebrated American culture by visiting the Whitney Museum of American Art, in particular the exhibit on Buckminster Fuller. Since they don't allow photos, you will simply have to imagine the collection of writings, sketches, and models of tree-like houses, modular bathrooms and, of course, geodesic domes. Or go to the Whitney and see it, it really is rather cool. And quintessentially American. Would a European have ever come up with the idea of dropping bombs into cities and "planting" houses in the resulting craters? That's what I thought.
The evening finished off on an eerily quiet Lexington Avenue.
Strolling by the windows of a closed housewares store, I was delighted to see that the American tradition of the barbecue is still alive and well, even on the Upper East Side.
It made me a little sad that among all the things I did to celebrate our nation's anniversary, the one thing I didn't do was the most traditional, patriotic thing of all. I didn't grill. Adding to this guilt was the fact that right below the the sign above, I had to look at my own grill, the very same model I had left alone at home, behind bars. It was very sad.
But all was not lost, for the next day, practically as soon as I got home, the grill was lit and burgers, tuna steaks, ribs, and kebabs alike all joined together on the culinary melting pot that is the surface of a propane-fired outdoor grill.
It was a fantastic weekend, and though I didn't travel particularly far, I felt as close to my country as ever. Happy 232nd, America, and here's looking at 233.
