My American Celebration

To celebrate the 250th birth of our nation I found myself watching a 4th of July parade in West Yellowstone, Montana. I was in-between trips but still traveling with a day before driving with a friend from the Wyoming/Montana area back to Boise, Idaho where I would catch my flight home to Rhode Island. We did not anticipate having an extra day which is why we found ourselves staying at Jerrod’s Wild Rose Ranch and Resort. Jerrod’s Wild Rose Ranch and Resort is a family-friendly campground with one bathroom and a coin-operated shower. It was a bed and shelter that did not require setting up our tents and after time in the wilderness that was a welcome change.

Because we had the unexpected free day, we decided to go to one of America’s premier parks: Yellowstone. Because it was the 4th of July, so we arrived early so that we would be able to enjoy some of the major park attractions before the crowds were overwhelming. We saw Old Faithful, twice. We checked out the visitor’s center, read all of the information, went to the Native Heritage Center (a great spot), and walked along the hot springs. We even got to see a couple of Buffalo on the other side of a stream. It was a good day.

Before heading back to Jerrod’s Wild Rose Ranch and Resort, we spent some time in the town of West Yellowstone, Montana, walking around, checking out the stores, and getting some food. After of dinner of better than average Mexican food we went back to the car to return to our spartan cabin at the family campground. On our way to the car, we noticed chairs set up along the street, crowds gathering, and heard the siren of a police car clearing the streets. We quickened our pace wanting to get to the car and out of town before the parade started when we realized that it was too late. We had parked right on the parade route and the show had just started. We were going to be stuck in West Yellowstone, Montana, for the duration of the parade.

Deep down, at my core, I know who I am. I was raised by progressive parents on the East Coast. I grew up listening to Pete Seeger, reading books that encouraged acceptance and compassion towards people of all different walks of life, taught to embrace ideals of peace, and live a faith of inclusion, grace, and mercy. I am, by many standards, a progressive, liberal, left-leaning, East coast individual. I know this about myself and as much as I try not to exude an aura of snobbery that seems to be a byproduct of the East Coast, I know who I am.

I will also admit that in many ways, I am a snob. Along with everything else that I do, I am a trained classical musician. I have feelings about “high culture” composers, operas, visual arts, and all those things. I enjoy spending time in nature and in museums, not at truck rallies or tractor pulls. I don’t watch or follow sports but enjoy listening to a hearty debate about the benefit of reading Proust. This is who I am. I try not to be insufferable, but I own my particularities and try not to judge others who enjoy different types of culture.

I don’t enjoy parades. I don’t really enjoy the effusive, demonstrative love of country. I don’t relate to the celebration of small-town values. I’m not against them, they just are not me. I also am not a fan of mob-spectacles. I would not enjoy a gay-pride parade or a pro-bassoon parade because it is not something that I do. So, I was not excited to see that we were going to have to sit through a parade in a “red” part of the country that I was sure was not to mirror any of the East Coast, snobbish values that I embrace. My friend, who is from Boise, knew what to do as she jumped onto the back of the car to just take it all in. I followed along and decided to just join in the experience.

We clapped politely at the scouts and cyclists who passed by. We cheered for the veterans. When the Baptist Church of West Yellowstone went by us I quickly noticed the façade of a Bible decorated with the American flag and made a point to not clap at all. Christian nationalism is not ok.

 When the Forest Service folks walked by we clapped and cheered loudly. We hooted and hollered at Smokey the Bear’s antics. The local musical theater group had a float and we shouted to support them as much as we could. We celebrated the Park Rangers and the one resort company with rainbow flags. I had to admit I was getting into it. People were throwing candy and tee shirts at us, shooting water, and waving. It was wholesome (aside from the Baptist float) and it was fun.

Then came a float that was dedicated to the 250th birthday of the United States of America. On the float were people dressed in various clothing lacking any real consistency in theme or purpose. It looked like a committee just started saying, “and add a lot of blue, and maybe something that looks like a boat, and Betsy Ross, and others dressed in jeans, and make sure Bob’s son gets a spot as well.” It was just a collection of Americana and did not grab me. Yet there was one person. A young man dressed in felt blue colonial garb. He had a tri-corner hat and a rifle and was holding the rifle in the air while shouting “America” in a victorious kind of way. His eyes caught mine and he brandished his rifle and yelled again, “America.” It was a challenge and an invitation all at once. He was inviting me to join in the victorious celebration or challenging me to disagree with him. It was as if he was saying, “I see you, you East Coast liberal, judging me and my people. Do you love America or don’t you?”

He held up rifle over his head and yelled again, “AMERICA,” and I decided to lean in. I held up my fist and yelled back, “yeah, America.” He responded, “YEAH, AMERICA!” and without thinking I met him and yelled with the same energy, “YEAH!! AMERICA!! AMERICA!! AMERICA” We were now chanting it to each other for a very brief moment we were I the same space. It was a moment of intensity, of passion and excitement. It was shared moment not of anger but of a ferocity that I seldom show. We were two people, looking each other in the eyes, feeding on the energy of the moment, and with a primal savagery expressing something. And then the float continued and the moment was past.

After the parade was over we were able to leave West Yellowstone and make our way back to Jerrod’s Wild Rose Ranch and Retreat. We were still tingling from the experience of the parade, of the dripping Americana. I was thinking about that one man in his second-rate colonial costume. My friend thought I was being a “bro” when I was yelling with him or that maybe I was being a “bro” ironically. Perhaps.

It is likely that the colonial cos-player and I have very different politics. It is likely that we vote differently, have a different idea about guns and the role of religion in politics. It is likely that when we shout “AMERICA” we are coming from very different places. But I think in that moment something was shared. For sure, I was not celebrating what the United States of America currently is. I was not jumping on the bandwagon of American greatness. Perhaps my colonial friend was celebrating a sense of a greatness of America, but I was shouting because I believe in what America can be. We were both shouting and sharing an energy, a passion about the place where we lived. It was likely that we did not share many values, but we were sharing the moment and maybe some basic ideas of America. I too can get excited about America. I too can raise my fist with energy because I love the idea of what America can be. I love the idea of diversity and freedom, of checks and balances, of populism and representation. I love the beauty of the country, the natural resources that inspire and move and impact me. I love the heritage of a place that makes space for the least, the tired, the huddled masses who are rejected from other places, who need to find a safe place, a new place to try to live and thrive. We are far from where I think we can and should be, but we have the space and the capacity to move towards that ideal of what America can become. That is why I raise my fist and shout with passion and energy.

I think there was something hopeful about the shared moment I had at the parade. Maybe we don’t try to agree on particularities of the nature of government or political movements. Maybe we start with what we feel about where we live. That individual with the tri-cornered hat was expressing a love and passion for America. I met him with my own love and passion for America. I think we both shared a love for America with lots and lots of nuanced differences.

That evening, at Jerrod’s Wild Rose Ranch and Resort, there was a firework show with music and more demonstrative love of America. I did not have the energy to fully commit to the spirit of the moment as I did at the parade. It takes a lot to meet someone where they are when it seems that we are so far apart. My friend and I watched the fireworks from the side, observing from afar. I had my shared moment, I took my chance, made myself vulnerable already and did not have the energy to do it again. Yet I watched with a little more compassion, a little more understanding. I held onto my East Coast snobbery because that is part of who I am, but it was softened. I had a moment of seeing and being seen. These people who were praying before the fireworks went off were “my people” if distant. I had a moment of sharing a space and I saw how the space I shared encompassed so many more. Perhaps I was changed, or reminded of what it means to celebrate something that I truly do love, the ideals of freedom and community that I find in the United States of America.