The following column is the opinion and analysis of the writer:
Tomorrowβs the Fourth here and sure as drought we Tucsonans will appreciate the fireworks that will bring us together with oohs and aahs, followed by the inspirational brush fires.
We may even find time to think fondly of our Founders for a second or two, in spite of their dithering on human bondage, because, at the very least, renouncing the rule of monarchs and granting ourselves the right to free expression, the task of perfecting our very own union, and the freedom to be Unitarians, Scientologists, Southern Baptists, Buddhists, Hassidic Jews or even a heathen, damned to perdition, is a fairly good bargain worth toasting.
Independence Day falls on Sunday this year, meaning every patriot in the Old Pueblo will wake to the sound of roosters crowing followed by church bells clanging, beckoning our neighbors to their haciendas of worship in every barrio and burb.
Mine eyes have seen the Glory and weβll hear it down the street and across our valley, the soft murmurs of We standing together singing hymns of praise and βGod Bless America.β Weβll pray for our Country and beseech our Gods for rain. E Pluribus Unum, pax vobiscum.
Weβll light sparklers on our porch and dine on the all-American cuisine of jackfruit tacos, pho, veggie burgers, Sonoran hot dogs, paletas and mochi ice cream balls, because walking out the mailbox to post old glory on the fencepost one can build up an astronomical gastronomical appetite.
In 1776 my great-great-great-great-great grandpa, Isham Brown, βBy profession a cultivator of the earth,β enlisted in Americaβs revolutionary Continental Army and served in Virginiaβs 4th Regiment, dodging musket balls at Princeton, engaging Lord Cornwallisβ redcoats, and fighting with General Washington at Germantown, Brandywine, Trenton and Valley Forge only to return home to lose his farm, divide the dirt among his three daughters and move on, as we Americans always do.
Isham lived to be 89, long enough to see his colony become a free democratic republic. The old revolutionaryβs bones rest in Missouri shade, beneath a modest headstone next to his patient bride, Martha.
Ishamβs great-great-grandkid, James, ended up in the Civil War, fighting to preserve the Union that Isham fought to create, enlisting on the right side of history to defend his nation from the same forces of division we fight today.
Grandpa Dick served in the First World War as a Dough Boy, a term that perplexed this child. Did he serve in the Pillsbury army under General Poppinβ Fresh or was the old coot a Yank who fought to end all wars, machine gunned and mustard gassed for his troubles? βLift your pantsβ legs, Grandpa! Show us the scars from the bullets,β Iβd beg.
My great auntβs boy, Kenneth, a barnstorming crop-duster turned ace, was shot down in the First World War over France, fueling her pilgrimβs pride and forever breaking her heart.
The Master Sergeant never spoke of Pearl Harbor. When asked about what he witnessed there on December 7th, Pop would just shake his head. βWe gave them democracy,β heβd say.
Decades ago, reading a history of D-Day, I came across a hapless Captain Fitzsimmons, no relation, who was among the casualties when the ramp of his Normandy-bound landing craft dropped and Nazi bullets strafed every would-be liberator.
Three years ago I lied, claiming to be related to my namesake, when a French travel host insisted on thanking me for my countryβs sacrifice after his first visit to Normandy. Stunned, humbled and proud I thanked him for Lafayette, who made our defeat of the British possible, the Statue of Liberty, a lovely housewarming gift and for Brigitte Bardot. βSomething worth dying for,β the Master Sergeant would say.
Iβve been privileged to stand where a King was defeated at Yorktown, where the Confederacy surrendered at Appomattox and where King had a Dream, confident the moral arc of our nation still bends to better days.
Tomorrow weβll crank up βBorn in the USA,β watch the sky overhead light up with fireworks and wish America Feliz CumpleaΓ±os. Weβll toast the revolution of 1776, which was over before our mission, San Xavier del Bac, was finished.
Weβll celebrate those who risked it all for an America-yet-to-be, revolutionaries who swore theyβd kneel before no man, dedicated to the yet-to-be realized ideal: Whether immigrant, native, pauper or king, we, in our humble desert village, are each otherβs equal, a radical proposition to celebrate long after the pyrotechnics and the brush fires on Sentinel Peak are extinguished.
