Last night, I attended the fireworks display for Rockville, Maryland, a town in Montgomery County which is adjacent to northwest Washington D.C. Most residents identify with the District, as it is called, either for work or cultural activities. National news becomes local news. Washington D.C. was built as a capital city, both for the institutions of our government--including the capitol-- and the civil service workers. The city has rich history of African Americans, their contributions and abhorrent neglect. The city has been divided into White, Black, diplomats, and civil service workers. Time has changed the demographics somewhat; but the separation of White, Black, Hispanic, rich and poor remains.
The suburbs reflect these neighborhood distributions with change coming quickly and drastically. In 2023, the population of Rockville reflects diversity with a capital "D". With the blink of an eye, a predominatedly white neighborhood becomes filled with people from everywhere. Last night was no exception.
Rockville was a sleepy, borderline south/north town in the 1950's, still segregated like the rest of the country. According to various sources from 2021, White people consist of 47% of the population, with Asians and Hispanics coming up second and third and then Blacks. I hate these labels which are misleading at best. White is what people call themselves but includes Biracial, Middle Eastern, and Hispanic individuals. Native Americans make up a small part of the population, but most Hispanics have indigenous blood no matter their skin color. Asians consist of people descended from Chinese to South Asian to Philipino. Whatever the statistics, anyone who observes our population sees a beautiful rainbow of pale, rosey, tan, light brown, dark brown, and nearly black skin tones. Spanish, Hindi, Tigrinya, Amharic, Arabic, Farsi, Chinese, and more can be heard, yet the children squeal and shout in English.
Last night, these humans smiled, laughed, and patiently waited for dark to come. Some very old aunties in traditional dress did not seem happy to be in the boisterous crowd. Heaven knows the trauma they may have experienced in their lives. Older White and Black Americans seemed at ease, accustomed to the tumult of the 4th of July. The kids ran the gamut from bouncy, impatient, whiney, to quiet. They kicked a soccer ball on a hilly patch with a huge drain. The boys deftly avoided falling and bumping into others. Two year olds played on the grass with melted chocolatey faces and sticky fingers. Babies had their diapers changed, as families snacked or picknicked.
I watched a family who originated from either Eithopia or Eriteria. Each child was treated to cotton candy and watched the scene around them. Cotton candy, commotion, and waiting for dark--dressed in red, white, and blue--a true, rapid immersion into American childhood and culture.
My sister and I were those children in the late 1950's through the 1960's. Bundled up in coats on foggy San Francisco summer nights, we too watched fireworks. Or our father lit sparklers in the backyard after eating picnic food with a European touch. For we were the children of Holocaust survivors. Our parents, too, were hell-bent on making us Americans. And that is what we became, no doubt about that. As it is said, as American as apple pie. The European identity remained just below the surface. Just as the African families probably tell their children about their history, food, and customs.
It is no coincidence that 4th of July celebrations are filled with people of diverse backgrounds and nationalities. These are the Americans who appreciate our country. I never cared about the holiday until I adopted two children from Latin America and realized how difficult it is to become a citizen. The recent threats to our Democracy have further strengthened my resolve to celebrate our ideals. I fly the American flag on Independence Day, as my father did. I do not want the conservatives to co-opt our flag.
One hispanic boy walking to the fireworks display area wore a red shirt with the words, "All American Boy." That said it all. Yes, with deep brown skin, black hair, and shining eyes--you are all American. Just as all American as my sister and I were half a century ago. And as American as the kids who hail from families that "go back to the Mayflower," as it is said.
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