The Patriot Next Door

On the Fourth of July, I did something of which I'm not particularly proud: I went to work. Of course, millions of Americans work on the Fourth of July--the country can't shut down, even on its birthday--but I imagine that most people, if given the choice, would take a holiday. Not me. I had asked to come in that day, and not out of any devotion to the Protestant work ethic or a reverence for the engines of commerce. My reasons were selfish and transparent. I wanted the rest of the weekend off.

So while most of the country slept in, grilled out, and hummed John Philip Sousa tunes, I waited tables at a local diner. The whole shift felt like a willful breaking of some national Sabbath, especially given the media's exhortations to be as patriotic as possible this year. For a week or so leading up to the day, the networks reported on terrorist threats and security measures, all the while spotlighting how different individuals would show the world their dedication to the country. Some were camping out on the Mall in Washington, D.C., while others were holding contests to see which family member could eat the most hot dogs. And some were taking cover. Me? I was just refilling coffee cups.

Don't get me wrong--this was not an act of disrespect. Usually I greet the Fourth of July with enthusiasm. This year, however, I found myself resisting the Fourth in the same way I tend to resist New Year's and Valentine's Day. There was too much hype, too much obligation, too much conditioned response. In the past, the Fourth has been about enjoying a well-cooked burger, a dip in the pool and some fireworks. It is a day of reflection, sure, but also a day of neighborly leisure. This year, however, there were expectations and fears. There was pressure to be distinctly and defiantly American. There was an urgency of appreciation which I believe we as a country are not very good at. As we tried to make our Independence Day bigger and more meaningful, America's beginnings were overshadowed by America's current troubles. That's not to say we don't have real threats lurking under the porch. But judging from media coverage this year, Americans were mainly interested in the what-ifs and the patriotic displays designed to sooth our angst. Little attention was paid to the larger significance of the American experiment.

All this may sound like a Charlie Brown special, but let me give you some background. When I was younger, I always spent the Fourth of July at my grandparents' house in Montreat, North Carolina, a small town outside of Asheville. Not even in Topeka, Kansas, will you find a slice of Americana so true as the Fourth of July parade in Montreat. Complete with penny whistles, three-cornered hats and a cavalcade of fire trucks, it is the largest gathering of the year for this town on the cusp of Appalachia. Yet it is a strange event in that, while there are hundreds of participants, there are no spectators--everyone who comes to the parade marches. The guiding philosophy is if anyone were left on the sidelines, the parade would be incomplete. The greater implication, however, is that no one marches to be seen. Thus I was taught that patriotism is more about civic partnership than individual pomp. It's about inclusion and expression and enjoying your neighbor's company. Most importantly, though, it is not about considering what you have, but what you have to contribute.

It has been almost a decade since I spent the Fourth in that old mountain town of my childhood. Members of my family still gather each year, but for one reason or another I am always unable to join them. That afternoon when I finished up at the diner, I wondered what I would do with myself for the next three days. On a whim I called the house in Montreat and asked my aunt if they had an extra bed. Half an hour later I was headed west on I-40. I missed the parade by several hours, but I arrived in time for a long dinner with my family. We talked casually about regular things, and I left the table with a deep and abiding respect for stability. I also left freed of the shame I'd felt that morning. This had turned out to be a pretty good Fourth after all: I hadn't sung the national anthem or set off any fireworks, but I had renewed a commitment to a community that means a lot to me. If there's any act to be proud of in this country it's not waving your flag, but rather making a point to invest yourself in the communities of which you are a part. From families to school districts to ballroom dancing clubs, devoting oneself to the other citizens of this democracy is, as I see it, the true expression of the patriot.

Andrew Nurkin, a senior, is president of Campus Council.