It’s the Fourth of July
It’s the Saturday of Fourth of July weekend, 2018. Like the era we live in, it was a day of conflicts and reflection, as well as fun. The morning started out hot, high eighties by the 10am protest on the lawn of the Statehouse in downtown Columbus. Thousands joined in, demanding that the children separated from their parents at the border be reunited. The demonstration was organized by a young Mom. She had never even been to a protest before, much less organized one; but she has an eight month old, and couldn’t imagine how it would feel to be torn from her daughter. She had to do something.
There were no “big” celebrities, no Lin-Manuel Miranda singing a cappella (in DC), no John Legend with a new song (in LA); just a few politicians working the edges of the crowd. There were older folks, remembering the days of Vietnam and Civil Rights. There were immigrants, proud of their heritage, and proud of their life here in America. There were the college kids from OSU, so intense in their struggle to change the world. And there were lots of “just parents with kids;” just like the “Mom” organizer, who clearly couldn’t understand how our nation would do this.
There were a couple of hours of speeches, and a couple of people collapsing from the heat. When the “medics” didn’t respond quickly enough, the Highway Patrolmen and Columbus Police officers came to help the stricken. Their job was “crowd control;” who knows what they thought about the protestors or the issue. But they immediately moved through the crowd, just doing what cops really became cops to do, help people.
There was a march around the Statehouse, on the sidewalks since there was no parade permit. When the crowd pressed into the main intersection, Broad and High, the police wanted them back on the sidewalks, and some in the crowd decided to focus on them to chant: “we own the streets.” Seemed like the cops were doing their job, and who owned the streets was beside the point of why we were there anyway.
Then back to the small town of Pataskala: burgers, brats and beer; good friends for dinner, then onto the town fireworks at the park. Pataskala lost their fireworks celebration a few years ago, the town couldn’t find a way to afford it. But Mike Compton, the new mayor, decided that small towns had to have fireworks on the Fourth of July; it’s what made them a town. Whether he voted for Trump or Clinton or someone else I don’t know, but Mayor Compton has a great view of what the town should be, and how to make it happen.
Sitting in a field, battling the mosquitoes, listening to little kids worry whether the rockets will hit planes: hanging out with friends and watching fireworks on the Fourth of July. In a nation so divided, small town Fourth of July’s are a little bit of healing. The divides will come back soon enough; a little time for the “Oohs and Aahs” is OK.
