On Saturday, I turned 35. My birthday has always been a national holiday full of summer fun, flag waving, and patriotic declarations of freedom. Obviously, this year brought a whole lot more to the table with the global pandemic and growing awareness of continued racial inequity in the United States and across the world.
As a young girl, I loved my patriotic birthday that I celebrated not only with my uncle who also has the same birthday but also the country, loving the fact that my entire family turned out to celebrate hanging around to wave sparklers and watch fireworks from the front porch. Additionally, it filled me with pride to celebrate my country; I loved the historical context of my birthday. I also drank the kool-aid that indoctrinated so many to the idea that to be a good Christian, one has to be a good American, a lot of which I discussed here.
The older I got, the more I read, the more I realized that I don’t live in the perfect Judeo-Christian country my elders told me I did. I learned how Andrew Jackson defied the Supreme Court to kick Cherokees off their land in Georgia sending them on the Trail of Tears. I learned how thousands of Texas slaves learned of their freedom on June 19, 1865, Juneteenth, months after the end of the Civil War. I learned of the American Imperialism that lead to the Spanish American War and so many other atrocities, not the least of which was the characterization of Philipinos as “Pacific Negros.”
I knew that awful things had happened in American history. It saddened me but did not surprise me because sinful humans will always act like this. Only God can make these changes. This knowledge tinged the rabid flag waving celebrations of people prone to use hyperbole to proclaim the country’s greatness. This knowledge saddened me, especially when others took my hesitation as a sign that I had somehow converted into a heathen who hated my country by acknowledging its inherent and obvious imperfections.
This year I contemplated all this prior to the actual day, started writing the post then. On the day itself I ran 35km and enjoyed relaxing. I avoided social media for the most part except to post about the run. I celebrated with my family, savoring a delicious meal and apple pie. We didn’t watch fireworks or set off any of our own, although remnants of one somehow made it halfway down our driveway. In all, this year I chose to celebrate my birthday rather than my country and I’m okay with that. Going forward, I continue to contemplate this dichotomy and how to adequately express the dilemma.