Happy Independence Day!

In honor of the Fourth of July, I decided to turn over the blog to someone else's point of view.

I asked my beloved Miss Gibson, who has lived in London since we graduated college in 1998, to write us all a column on why she betrayed America. (Her change-of-citizenship, from what I understand, is still being processed by the Home Office in Britain, from what I understand.)

She applauded the idea, and I think she liked when I called her Benedict Arnold. So she wrote me something, and it's a good one.

Nowadays, when I read one of those bumper stickers that says, "If You Don't Like America, Get the Hell Out," I think of Miss Gibson. Because she did.
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RED, WHITE AND BLUES
by C. Elizabeth Gibson

Another year, another fourth of July going uncelebrated. One of the pitfalls, if you could call it that, of expatriate life is an absence of partying on various national holidays. Much like I wouldn't expect Guy Fawkes' Day to prompt drinkies in Georgia I don't expect fellow Londoners to break out the fireworks and US flags. I could, I suppose, go track down other Americans. Ring up the Embassy, see what's going on. But I don't feel like it.

I've fallen out of love with the 4th.

The last great time we had together must have been in Macon, Georgia, in 1995. I remember my family coming to see me when I was spending time down there in my embryonic days of journalism an intern. We caught a Macon Braves Game, ate some fried chicken (and apple pie). It was all very wholesome - and that's what the 4th is about, right?

Fast-forward to July 4, 2003. I was in, of all places, Lebanon TN (it's my mother's fault - she lives there). I was on my yearly trip home, just hanging out. And that's exactly what we did - hang. Neither of us could be bothered to meet people for a barbecue, or go to another place for beers, or meet up with other people for fireworks. Full blown July 4th apathy. We laughed it off at the time, citing just a general level of crapness, but now, a year later, I realise the extent of my disenchantment. It's hard to sing hymns of praise to the mom-baseball-apple pie trinity any more. An illegal war in Iraq, a stealth war against America's poor (under the guise of states slashing social spending to balance their budgets) and a blind spot on the environmental damage of consumption have worn me out. The anger is exhausting, because it's usually daily. Sometimes just a small dose of a minute or two, prompted by a headline; sometimes a deluge for hours, in heated discussions.

It's difficult these days to swell up proudly at the thought of America's greatness, and it's all to easy to gnash and wail over the latest Bush caper - especially where I am, safely nestled in the warm bosom of Britain's liberal left. But that doesn't mean there can be no reignition of feeling with the 4th. A commitment to human rights would be like chocolates; joining Kyoto would be like roses - and getting the hell out of Iraq would be the big, fat diamond engagement ring. But this won't be happening any time soon. There are many Americas to love and to celebrate, but I fear it is the unpleasant one that is overwhelming the others. I'm American, and will always be, no matter where I live and how many passports I have, and for that fact, and that fact alone, I want once again to have a country - for myself and everyone else - that is worth setting off Roman candles for.