I find my aging self in mourning for my country, but also feeling hope as I look at those who still are young….
AS I SIT on this beautiful July 4 morning, approaching my 79th year, listening to neighbors begin to gather at the apartment complex swimming pool just outside my door, I try to reach back into my memories and bring forward the pride and joy and appreciation I always felt on this special day.
But, I can’t. My mind is filled with contradictions, and my overpowering emotions are ones of grief and mourning as I realize that my country has now turned its back on that band of colonists who nearly 250 years ago dared to rise up against a king.
I don’t mourn for myself. At 79 my time on what is left of this earth is limited. I have lived in the best of times. Oh, we had the struggles of the Civil Rights movement. We had Vietnam. We have had a spate of minor crisis to get through and, we did get through them. What I might once have considered hardships in my life were, looking back now, inconveniences and temporary discomforts. For the most part, I have lived my life in the best of times.
So, I have nothing to complain about. It is unlikely the death of a nation will reach its conclusion, if that is where it is headed, in time to materially impact me. So, no mourning for myself. And, as I mourn, I hasten to add that I still refuse to let go of hope that others, someday, may celebrate new or regained freedoms. More on that later. First, though, the grief….
I do, though, mourn for my children and the hardships they will face. I mourn for my grandchildren as they try to plan lives that may not include real democratic freedom, and on a planet that may decline to support them. I mourn for your children and grandchildren.
I mourn for the single mothers who work two low-paying jobs who now will go to the grocery store to find food stamps no longer accepted; who will take their children to the doctor to find Medicaid is no longer accepted; who will take a sick child to the hospital in the dark of night only to find a “closed” sign on its door and directions to a hospital two hours away.
I mourn for the elderly who are not as fortunate as I am and who sit in nursing homes and rely on Medicaid to cover their care. I mourn for their families, who, when the home closes will be forced to find a way to care for them while facing their owns struggles in raising families, keeping jobs.
I mourn for people who celebrate love and sex in different ways than I, who now have been told their love cannot be displayed; who see their rights to live as do all other loving and caring people eroded or outright withdrawn.
I mourn for people of color who thought their path was an ascending one that would end on a mountaintop where they would stand with everyone else; standing in a place of equal pay, of the right to live in a neighborhood of their choosing, to see their heritage and history onward as piece of the fabric that made their country what it is, or pointed it toward what it might become.
I mourn for those beyond our shores. I carry with me memories of people in Africa living in large cities with dirt streets and no plumbing and homes with cardboard walls and eating food provided by the United States but now withdrawn. I mourn for those who have died fighting for freedom against tyrants who turned to the United States for help in their struggle but who now have been denied aid.
I mourn for our planet, which has nurtured us and made life possible, which now is dying at our hand with nary a pause for appreciation or a word of thanks.
BUT AS I MOURN, and wonder if I can drink a margarita by the pool later today with any sense of hope, I realize the answer is “yes.”
We have been a nation of hope since the times of our Founders. I think of another July 4, this one in 1863 when Confederate General Robert E. Lee retreated from Gettysburg, PA, his army and his cause in tatters; and, when on that same day Gen. U.S. Grant ended the stand-off at Vicksburg. On that July 4, even though war would continue to rage for more than a year, the Union began a march to survival.
We have stood the test so many other times, as we suffered through a depression, stood up to tyranny around the globe during World War II. We can take hope from history.
But my hope does not come from what I will do. My hope comes from watching others much younger than I. It will take young people rising up and reclaiming their futures and in so doing, maybe finding time to forgive their grandparents for losing their way.
We have new voices. We have AOC, young, Latino from the Bronx. We have the stunning upset in the New York mayoral race by Zohran Mamdani , who makes no apologies for his liberal leanings. We have other young voices of all colors, creeds, sexes, faiths, genders across the country speaking out and standing up – those in their 20s, 30s, 40s, but also still in their teens.
We need to listen to those voices and to respect them and to let them sit at the table and order the food and drink even if it is not what we might have chosen. We do not need to agree with them on everything. Quite often hope comes dressed in clothing we ourselves might not wear.
So, I will go to the pool today and sit with friends and have a margarita. Maybe two. I will go down to the memory care unit this evening and sit quietly with my wife. There will be no fireworks, no flag waving, no watching a parade.
For me, at nearly 79, this is not a Fourth for celebration. It is a Fourth for reflection, for mourning but then opening myself up to the rising of hope.
Rich Heiland is a retired journalist and semi-retired consultant, trainer and public speaker. During his journalism career he was a reporter, editor, publisher, college instructor, part of a Pulitzer Prize-winning team and a National Newspaper Association Columnist of the Year honoree. He also writes the intodementia.com blog about his family’s experience with dementia. He lives in West Chester, PA and can be reached at [email protected].