by Dezi Hall
For as far back as I can remember, every Fourth of July I have worn some version of the American flag as part of my outfit. Even when I was a kid who didn’t really care about choosing my own clothes, my mother always made sure to dress me and my brother in some patriotic garb from Old Navy.
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When I was pregnant, my mind would sometimes flit to my first Fourth of July with my own daughter to dress. Would I be a classic mom and dress her in a blue tutu and a sparkly red bow? Or maybe a cooler, progressive mom, dressing her in gender neutral jean shorts and a flag shirt? What I never considered was that I would be so disappointed, so utterly ashamed of my country, that I would refuse to dress her in our country’s colors at all.
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See, in all my wildest dreams I never dared to imagine that Donald Trump would beat Hillary Clinton in the presidential election. Even as my own mother wrung her hands and twisted nervously next to me on November 8th as we watched CNN. Even as my father settled in next to her to hold her hand and tell her it would be fine, though he didn’t look like he believed his own words.
My husband and I were cool, calm. While my parents had flown in from Florida to wait out the remaining days of my pregnancy with us, they warned us of what they had seen when they volunteered at the polling places. They saw anger. They saw aggression. They saw far more Trump voters than Clinton voters. But my husband and I had been blissfully floating along in our liberal bubble of Los Angeles, and we ignored their intense worry. After all, we had only seen one (one!) Trump bumper sticker throughout the whole election process.
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Then the results started rolling in. My mother got more and more nervous, her knee starting to bounce up and down uncontrollably. My confidence began to slip away, until, finally I sat there in disbelief, my family all looking at one another, searching for words that never came.
I went to bed on election night with a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. I woke up from a fretful sleep at 2am. I texted my friend in New York with tears silently dipping from my face. What kind of world would this be for my daughter? What future would she face? What country was I bringing her in to? The more I thought about her and this new world order, the more my stomach began to contort. I got out of bed and began pacing and didn’t stop until my husband suggested, half-jokingly, that maybe the election stress had put me into labor a week early.
I gave birth later that night.
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In the days and weeks following Trump’s rise to power I was overwhelmed with the daily needs of a newly minted first time mother. But even with life’s ultimate distraction, each morning I would wake and a fresh and powerful wave of shame and sadness would descend on me.
What was America now that this was our reality? I remember the tears I shed on the night Obama won his first election. Fresh out of college I wiped my runny nose on the sleeve of my Obama/Biden dark blue shirt and thought, “We did it. We’ve changed the world,” as my heart swelled with hope.
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On the years of Fourth of Julys that came after Obama, I would wear my old campaign shirt, and feel a familiar sense of pride and hope for the future. My generation finally had the keys to the car, and we were going to drive somewhere amazing.
But then something happened, and we wrecked it all. Now we’re left to stare at the mangled remains of what we could have had. Now I’m left to wonder what I should dress my daughter in this Fourth of July.
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I want to say I still love this country. That it doesn’t matter who’s in charge. That this is my home. But that’s not entirely true. Sometimes I hate this country. My father cringes when I say that, because his own father fought in WWII. He risked his life for his country. But would he have risked it for this one? A country is the sum of its people. Right now we aren’t adding up to anything to be proud of. On November 8th, 2016, America’s mask came off and we saw the twisted face of hatred and greed beneath the facade of exceptionalism.
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Americans had the chance to stand for equality and progress and kindness. We did not. Now when I look at the flag I see the red of angry faces, the blue of my tear-soaked campaign shirt, and the harsh whiteness of privilege that abuses its power. I see a sinister combination of colors, that I can’t bring myself to drape my daughter in.
