Pgh Lesbian Correspondents

In 2014, I wrote a blog post about the Fourth of July, focusing on things we saw in movies but didn’t experience in real life. The thing most people take away from that post is my reference to the annual firework displays hosted by Hill’s Department Stores around the region.

Something about that simple experience of blowing up the sky at all your major retail locations truly and deeply resonates. All these years, I’ve found that to be sweet even if I’m put out that my actual point wasn’t resonating. Hmmm.

Last night, I was rereading that post as I watched coverage of the Congressional nightmare unfold. One of my points was that in spite of everything dividing the neighbors, those few moments of fireworks brought us together – united us is far too strong a turn of phrase – before the final blast sent us spinning back out to separate spaces.

That’s the problem. The fireworks are a literal catalyst that has never sparked changed. I’ve never had a single soul talk about the transformative moments of their July holidays. There’s no consciousness raising. There’s no curiosity about any of it. We’ve pumped the holiday so full of patriotic symbols – flags, music, fireworks – that the meaning of those symbols has been erased

We find unity in contemplating grand things, bigger things, awe-inspiring things that seem to defy scientific principles (little bits of colored lights timed to Bruce Springsteen?) and disturb peace with no regrets – veterans, dogs, children stop crying about the noise – but we aren’t curious about it.

We might be nostalgic about Hill’s fireworks and what we remember about our childhood holidays. That’s not the same thing as curiosity. We might have fond memories, big laughs, secret smiles, but that is not a fire lit to spark change. That is a wavering ember that will self-immolate without so much as a whispery breath.

Our addiction to patriotic porn is such that we can’t even consider silent fireworks to honor veterans living with PTSD. That’s not curiosity, that’s abandonment. That’s a dishonorable discharge.

So I made a little reel last night and since then I’ve changed my mind a bit.

We need to bring back the neighborhood fireworks with lawn chairs, cooling grills, cans of store brand pop floating around in icy water. We need to say ‘step right up’ for your trip down memory lane (with snacks) but – hold up, first we are going to detour through our current situation then pop back 500 years to see with eyes wide open that colonialism told us all along – it is not about the poor, the working, the invalid, the ‘right way’ or the process we are due.

I’m gonna need you to read that pocket constitution with twice the fervor and thrice the attention you give your sacred verses.

You do realize the reason you can express yourself with boom boom boom fireworks, that you can gather with your buddies is because of the document. Read it closely because mark my words – they will be coming for your gatherings one day soon. They will rely on your ignorance to dragoon you to fight wars, to pick vegetables, to keep your fearful eyes cast upon those who just want to share in that unity, that community, with impunity.

But without immunity because while your eyes and ears are distracted by the sonic boom, they will take away your healthcare, your shot at anything better, your preventative measures. You will be grateful for a one day holiday, a tattered lawn chair, a leaking cooler with duct tape furiously overtaking the original material components. You will have no connection to your culture, your traditions, your rituals, your community.

Colonialism wins again, my friend.

I am glad I have some good memories of childhood holidays, of course. But I do not want to ever again be lulled into refusing to think past the blast of fireworks from a bankrupt corporate retail outlet. That’s is no longer my benchmark for patriotism.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Sue Kerr (@pghlesbian)