On staying
The day started with a parade.
Capitol Hill in the morning. Marching bands, American flags, even the mayor. Red, white and blue everywhere. The sidewalks packed. Generations side by side.
I was there because D.C.’s home and about as local as it gets for me. And in my opinion, the 4th of July is as local as it gets, so shouldn’t I celebrate it in my adopted hometown? Except what do you do when your hometown is also the seat of the federal government, and while it’s “just another” 4th of July, it’s also America's 250th?
You stay home. And you’ll celebrate.
I'll say it plainly. I stood on that sidewalk, both proud and uncomfortable at the same time. I disagree vehemently with what this current administration represents. That doesn't mean I agree with what the other side represents, either—and that's part of the problem. It doesn't feel like there are options other than "not this.” And I don't have the answer to that. I only know I couldn't (and can’t) run from the conflicting emotions.
By night, I was on a roof deck in Georgetown overlooking the Key Bridge, with a best friend, her boyfriend and magnificent hosts and their other guests. We watched the fireworks go off on the 5th of July, because they started late (if you know, you know). Everyone up there felt the same thing—the pull to celebrate this place and to protect it; the push to disassociate and to question what’s next.
I'm a bicentennial baby. This year I turned 50, and America turned 250—which means I've been alive for a fifth of Her whole story. I've felt bound to Her because of that shared number in a way I can't fully explain.
I was born in Turkey. But on Her land—on an American base, on American soil. So I've been Hers from the first breath, even from the other side of the world.
Where I was, on that roof deck, wasn't even three miles from the White House. Yet that is the difference between D.C., where I live and call home, and Washington, which the federal government calls home. We were miles removed from the divide that is our current state of affairs. We were anything but divided, standing in unity, watching the spectacle of lights.
We all could have left town. And debated it. And we all felt compelled to stay. We needed to be here. We wanted to be home.
Because love is work. And loving this country means working to return her to what we want her to be—what she can be. Patriotism is not voluntary. It is not optional. It is participatory. It's why I volunteer every election cycle, why I believe using our voice at the ballot box is one of the truest ways to participate. And it was this very friend—the one I stood with that night—who first brought me to this way to engage in our democracy. How fitting for the 4th.
James Baldwin may have said it best:
“I love America more than any other country in the world, and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.”
He wanted Her to live up to Her promise. I do, too.
Eventually, the last firework faded. The car horns started up again. The everyday came flooding back—people heading home, to their houses.
I hope there are people years from now who see America turn 500. I worry sometimes that She won't make it to 300. I definitely won’t be here for the 500th, I probably won't be here for the 300th, either. Maybe that's exactly why this one mattered as much as it did. Why I needed to be home for it.
We started our walk across the bridge to my friend's house. The whole way I could hear it—kids, adults, laughter, debate. Languages, accents. Everyone going home. Me, too.
That is why I stayed. Because this is where I rest my head. This is home.