Independence Day, 2018

Life goes on in the bubble.

Here's the thing.  I have never been poor. I have never been raped. I have never regretted a pregnancy. I have been lucky enough to be thrilled about the prospect of meeting each of my unborn children, without reservation. I grieved when an early miscarriage took that chance away from me; I grieved, not for a life ended, but for a life never begun. 

I am thankful I have never had to make the choice, but I have never understood why it would be someone else's choice to make. I have never understood why the party of small government makes an exception when it comes to marching into a woman's womb. As if the personal decision isn't heart wrenching enough without a bunch of middle aged white guys scrubbing in. 

Oh yes, we've come a long way baby, which means we have so much farther to fall. The same folks who don't seem particularly interested in pushing back on a president who is slowly chipping away at the entire world order are literally giddy about the prospect of finally being able to push unwanted fetuses back in, no matter what the consequences. And separating children from their parents and putting babies in cages is okay as long as you're trying to keep them out, not in. I am so confused, here in my bubble. 

Tomorrow is Independence Day. It gives me pause. For the first time in my life, I feel shackled. Even while life goes on as it always has, in the bubble. While I sit outside at my neighborhood Starbucks, enjoying a relatively work-free Tuesday. While I decide whether to go to Pilates or take a bike ride or just spend the day waiting until it's a n acceptable time to switch from coffee to wine. While I still feel somewhat naively comfortable knowing that, here in my bubble state, my daughters will never have to resort to coat hangers to defy the intrusions of a bunch of white men who just don't get it. 

I cannot get this movie out of my head, a recent sleeper called "1945." The summer of 1945, somewhere in eastern Europe, where the war is over but people have not necessarily changed. A collective morning after, for the criminals and the accomplices and, mostly, for the ones who stood by, powerless, and did nothing. I wonder what 2020 holds for us, or, worst case scenario, 2024. Or, if I'm cautiously optimistic, 2018. I yearn to see the active collaborators get their due, but what of the rest of us? 

On Independence Day, 2018, I hope we all remember it's not just about the burgers and hot dogs, although I wouldn't give those up for anything. I hope the fireworks remind us all of how far we have come, and how far we can fall. There is much more at stake, this year, than a chance of rain on our parades.