Is America too big? Is it hopelessly fractured? What is this strange idea of a nation we are all compelled to believe in?
America is huge. Its vastness and the diversity of its landscapes are impressive. But what does it mean? How does it work? In Japan, a woman working in a convenience store once told me that she had traveled to England and loved it, but did not enjoy a vacation she took to America, partly because she was daunted by its size. Is our enormous, sprawling nation essentially ungovernable? Is its fracturing a modern phenomenon? Look at the response to the coronavirus, which has laid bare our national inability to agree on anything and cooperate in the better interest of all. We can’t even all agree to things that make basic sense, and that are vital to our survival as individuals and as a nation. While some states, and many individuals in many states, are willing to stay at home, socially distance, and wear masks to protect themselves and others, too many people in the country are throwing caution to the wind or rejecting basic principles of disease prevention because they are drunk on the idea of America as a land where you are free to be as stupid as you want to be.
The numbers of Americans who have contracted the virus and who have died of it are appalling, with our numbers of total cases and deaths surpassing any other country on the planet, in spite of the fact that we witnessed China and South Korea dealing with the virus before it reached us and should have been prepared. On this day when we’re “celebrating” America, we’re currently a global leader in nothing but incompetence and incoherence. The response to the pandemic has been marked by selfishness, hubris, and stupidity, the hallmark vices of our country in its worst moments.
Note the markedly different tone from the previous entry here, written on coronavirus almost three months ago. At the time, the virus was mostly affecting the northeast, and was being handled mostly sensibly by local politicians and citizens, perhaps so much so that some of the rest of the country began to feel there was nothing to worry about—that it wasn’t in their backyards, so they were fine and could live without restrictions. And that lack of restrictions brought the virus to their backyards, which are now aflame with a coronavirus wildfire.
Trump’s response to the pandemic has been one of the primary forces fomenting chaos and making a bad situation worse. But he is aided and abetted by millions of “normal” Americans who voted for him, will vote for him again, and share his same ignorance of and disdain for sensible precautions, like wearing masks. Added to the destructive force of his contradictory policies is the non-benign neglect practiced by a large chunk of the population. Even in areas that aren’t Trump strongholds, some people are just getting tired of being careful and are putting themselves in social situations where the virus spreads rapidly through too many people’s indifference and hunger for sensation. The Jersey Shore and other beach areas are nearly as packed as ever, which could lead to a resurgence in cases in areas that have quieted down since April.
Which brings us back to the question, what are we celebrating? The Fourth of July has often provided opportunities for buffoonish displays of “patriotism” with red, white, and blue flag- and eagle-spangled everything (sunglasses, wigs, dog shirts, you name it)—just as St. Patrick’s Day allows for buffoonish displays of “Irish”-ness, replete with leprechauns and orange beers—but it seems worse than usual to be celebrating ourselves this year, with self-inflicted pandemic losses looming large in headlines beside issues of racial injustice.
We must not forget what we are doing to the land we are allegedly celebrating, as well. As Aldo Leopold once so hauntingly asked, “Do we not…sing our love for and obligation to the land of the free and the home of the brave? Yes, but just what and whom do we love? Certainly not the soil, which we are sending helter-skelter down river. Certainly not the waters, which we assume have no function except to turn turbines, float barges, and carry off sewage. Certainly not the plants, of which we exterminate whole communities without batting an eye. Certainly not the animals, of which we have already extirpated many of the largest and most beautiful species.”
On the eve of Independence Day, Trump has just held, against all advice, a rally complete with a massive fireworks display at Mount Rushmore, where fireworks have been banned for a decade due to wildfire risks. Again we have a valuing of the symbolic over the actual. He hugs a flag and gets cheers from his adoring crowd; he promises to launch fireworks above a tinder-dry forest, questioning environmental regulations (“It’s all stone. So I’m trying to say, where’s the environmental reason?”) and gets the same cheers. He claims to love this land whose well-being he so callously disregards. Every day, the air, water, soil, plants, animals, and people are and will be suffering under his all-out attack on environmental laws.
Yet in spite of this remorseless assault on all that should be valued, and all of the crassness that often accompanies the holiday, we are reminded, as we take in not just the spectacle of Mount Rushmore, but the pine-covered Black Hills surrounding it, and the Native American protesters surrounding the rally, that there is a higher calling for us, there is something we can love and take pride in. We can truly appreciate the beauty of this country, and we can work with its original inhabitants to preserve it and to restore it. We can feel with them a sacred connection with this land, if we learn to see the earth as sacred. We can create a multiracial harmony based on dignity and respect for one another and for the land we share. All of this takes more, and means more, than a T-shirt with a flag or an eagle on it. There is much to overcome, but it is the only viable future for us, and it is a future worth fighting for.