July 4, 2025: "The Glass," Independence Day, "July 4th Apologia in the Time of Trump"

It is Independence Day in the United States.  Again, for my non-U.S. disciples, I will explain that, on July 4, we celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence in which we declared our freedom from British rule.  So, pretty much we rejected royal governance.  Translation:  no kings for this country.

This year, July 4th has a different vibe for me.  It feels as if the country that I know and love (for all its flaws, and there are many) is dying right before my eyes, every minute of every day.

Sharon Olds writes about her dying father . . . 

The Glass

by: Sharon Olds

I think of it with wonder now,
the glass of mucus that stood on the table
in front of my father all weekend. The tumor
is growing fast in his throat these days,
and as it grows it sends out pus
like the sun sending out flares, those pouring
tongues. So my father has to gargle, cough,
spit a mouth full of thick stuff
into the glass every ten minutes or so,
scraping the rim up his lower lip
to get the last bit off his skin, then he
sets the glass down, on the table, and it
sits there, like a glass of beer foam,
shiny and faintly golden, he gargles and
coughs and reaches for it again,
and gets the heavy sputum out,
full of bubbles and moving around like yeast–
he is like a god producing food from his own mouth.
He himself can eat nothing, anymore,
just a swallow of milk, sometimes,
cut with water, and even then
it cannot, always, get past the tumor,
and the next time the saliva comes up
it is ropey, he has to roll it in his throat
a minute to form it and get it up and dis-
gorge the oval globule into the 

glass of phlegm, which stood there all day and
filled slowly with the compound globes and I would
empty it, and it would fill again, 

and shimmer there on the table until 

the room seemed to turn around it

in an orderly way, a model of the solar system
turning around the sun,
my father the dark earth that used to
lie at the center of the universe, now 

turning with the rest of us
around his death, luminous glass of 

spit on the table, these last mouthfuls of his life.

Yes, death brings people together.  Doesn't matter what or who is dying.  I've been in a few rooms when members of my family were breathing their last breaths.  It's a difficult and sacred moment--full of sadness and gratitude, saying goodbye and thankyou at the same time.

Will this be the last time the United States will commemorate independence and freedom on July 4th?  I'm not sure.  Next year, will we all be forced to attend goose-stepping, book-burning parades and rallies?  I don't know.  At least to me, I don't feel quite as independent and free as I did last year on this day.  Perhaps I am witnessing the death of democracy in the United States.

Typically, I would attend at least two parades and a fireworks display on Independence Day.  Not this year.  Instead, I hosted a barbecue this evening for friends and family as a kind of send-off for my daughter and her significant other (they will be moving downstate in about a week for my daughter to attend medical school).  So, we served up standard July 4th cuisine--hotdogs and bratwurst and watermelon and pasta salad and delicious, chocolaty desserts.  We told family stories.  Played croquet.  Loved each other.

I'm trying not to get all maudlin about my daughter moving away.  It's difficult, though.  My job as a father these last 24 years has been to protect her, keep her out of harm's way as much as possible.  Now, I'm not sure what my job duties will be, and she's inheriting a country that seems less kind, less loving, less free.

So, you'll excuse me if I don't stand up with my hand over my heart this evening.  

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight based on the following prompt from July 2 of The Daily Poet:

Happy birthday to Nobel Prize-winning poet Wislawa Szymborska!  Szymborska, born in Western Poland and lifelong resident of Krakow, was known not only for her fiercely political poems but for revealing the profound truths in the everyday experience of living.  In her honor, today's assignment is to write a poem of apology.  Don't apologize for minor things, like forgetting to close the windows during a rainstorm; apologize to abstractions such as hope, necessity, chance, and loyalty.  For further inspiration, read Syzmborska's poem "Under a Certain Little Star," which can be found through an Internet search.

July 4th Apologia in the Time of Trump

by: Martin Achatz

I'm sorry to compassion for not having

          an extra bologna sandwich and pillow.

I'm also sorry to justice for taking

          a nap this afternoon.

Freedom, please don't hold it against me

          if I forget your name.

And, common sense, you and I both know

          that throwing salt over your shoulder

          won't change any outcome or mind.  

Laughter, I've known you a long time, but

          I've blocked your texts

          until you come up with new jokes.

Independence, I'm sorry I mowed my lawn

          so the rabbits have to visit

          my neighbor's yard when they get hungry.

My condolences, pride, for leaving my shoes

          in the middle of the living room

          floor to trip over.

But I can't say I'm sorry, patriotism, 

          for not inviting you to tonight's barbecue.

You see, I prefer to hang with

          poets who don't mind sharing

          the last hotdog on the grill

          with the migrant worker next door.

Because everyone should know

          what liberty tastes like. 

July 3: Shirley Geok-Lin Lim, "Learning to love America," Just Sayin'

Learning to love America

by:  Shirley Geok-Lin Lim

because it has no pure products

because the Pacific Ocean sweeps along the coastline

because the water of the ocean is cold

and because land is better than ocean

because I say we rather than they

because I live in California

I have eaten fresh artichokes

and jacaranda bloom in April and May

because my senses have caught up with my body

my breath with the air it swallows

my hunger with my mouth

because I walk barefoot in my house

because I have nursed my son at my breast

because he is a strong American boy

because I have seen his eyes redden when he is asked who he is

because he answers I don’t know

because to have a son is to have a country

because my son will bury me here

because countries are in our blood and we bleed them

because it is late and too late to change my mind

because it is time.

________________________

Everyone needs to read this poem this July 4.

Saint Marty is just sayin'.

August 22: Excessive Emotions, Birthday Shopping, Pig Pen

Our excessive emotions are so patently painful and harmful to us as a species that I can hardly believe that they evolved.  Other creatures manage to have effective matings and even stable societies without great emotions, and they have a bonus in that they need not ever mourn.  (But some higher animals have emotions that we think are similar to ours:  dogs, elephants, otters, and the sea mammals mourn their dead.  Why do that to an otter?  What creator could be so cruel, not to kill otters, but to let them care?)  It would seem that emotions are the curse, not death--emotions that appear to have devolved upon a few freaks as a special curse from Malevolence.

It's an interesting idea that Dillard posits:  the curse of life isn't cancer or AIDS or lymphoma or flood or fire.  The curse of life is that we care about these things.  Emotions are God's special curse.  Sure, we experience joy and ecstasy, love and passion.  But we also undergo sadness and despair, grief and fear.  That is life's greatest tribulation.

I sort of agree with Dillard, and I sort of don't.  My life would be so much simpler without excessive emotions.  Today, I went to pick up a birthday present for my nephew.  As I stood before the cash register, waiting for my debit card to clear, I was in a panic.  I had no idea if there was enough money in my account to cover the purchase.  (I had shown up with a coupon for 60% off any merchandise.  Unfortunately, books weren't a part of that deal.  I had to pay full price)  By the time the approval finally came through, I had almost gone through all the stages of grief and was rounding the corner on acceptance.

Emotion turned that whole birthday shopping excursion into one of the circles of Dante's Inferno--the one reserved for people who overdraw their checking accounts.  It was not pleasant.  Without feelings, I wouldn't have had to deal with the worry and fear.  In fact, without feelings, life would simply be a series of happenings.  Christmas would be the day that comes after December 24.  In the United States, July 4 wouldn't be Independence Day--no parades, no fireworks.  It would just be another hot and muggy summer day.

And death wouldn't be saddled with all the emotional baggage, either.  No desperation or false hope.  Grief and despair would be dinosaurs--bones in the Museum of Natural Emotional History.  Terrorism would be completely ineffective because there would be no terror or fear or rage to fuel it.  Basically, we would all be flat lines, walking around--breathing, eating, sleeping, working, fucking--until we just stopped.  No wailing or gnashing of teeth at the end.  A last breath and then . . . nothing.

For the last year, one of my sisters has been mired in grief.  She walks around like Pig Pen, a cloud of dark emotions following her everywhere.  She hasn't been able to work.  Suffers panic attacks.  Spends days sleeping.  She's pissed at God for not saving our sister, Sally, last summer.  Guilty because she believes that she could have done something else to save Sally's life.  Sad because life didn't turn out the way she planned.

Of course, all these emotions have one root cause--helplessness.  My sister can't wrap herself around the idea that she's not in control (has never been in control).  So her way to stay in control of her life is through anger and guilt and sadness.  And, as a result, her life is completely out of control.

Now, I am not the poster child of emotional health.  Tomorrow night, when I step into the classroom for my first night of teaching, I will be a beehive of panic and anxiety.  I am human.  Therefore, I am an emotional creature, just like a dog or elephant or sea otter.  I can't escape it, and don't really want to.  Sure, sometimes there are tears and screaming, but, on the flip side, there are also embraces and passionate kisses.

Tears and hugs are gifts, not punishments.  Hopefully, Saint Marty's sister will learn that soon.

July 4: Happy Independence Day

In the United States, on July 4, we celebrate Independence Day.  It's the day the Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776, kicking off the American Revolution.  So when I say "Happy July 4th," I'm not trying to be xenophobic or insensitive to other cultures.  I'm simply passing along warm greetings on a day which places high value on freedom in my country.

I do realize how lucky I am to live in a place that allows me to write a blog like this without censorship or consequence.  I can openly express my opinions and not worry about being woken up in the middle of the night by some kind of secret police.  That's a great blessing, and that's what Independence Day is all about in the United States, at least in my mind.

Whoever you are, I wish you safety and happiness this day.  My hope for you is freedom to live your life as you wish.  To love freely, worship freely, speak freely, write freely, read freely.

Marty is a very lucky saint.

This is what it's all about

July 4: Parades, Bratwurst, Fireworks

Happy Fourth of July!

For those of my readers who are not from the United States, July 4 is the day we celebrate our independence.  (No offense to any person of British persuasion.)  In Small Town, USA, we have parades of police cars and dump trucks and fire engines, throw Tootsie Rolls at the kids, and listen to marching bands.  Then we barbecue hot dogs and bratwursts, cook corn on the cob, and cut up some watermelon.  At dusk, we gather in parks or by lakes and watch fireworks displays.

Where I live, they also hold alumni softball tournaments for the local high schools.  People who've moved away come home, and you can see friends and acquaintances you haven't seen in years.  At the parade I went to this morning, I talked to a girl I hadn't seen in close to 15 years.  I used to direct her in children's plays at the local community theater.  Seeing her with her two children and husband made me feel quite old.  But it was a good.

I'm getting ready to head out to tonight's community picnic and fireworks.  I'm sure I'll see some friends I haven't seen in a long time.  I'm also sure I'll eat some Kettle Corn.  That's my little July 4 tradition.

Saint Marty gives thanks today for parades and Tootsie Rolls and bratwurst and fireworks.

July 4th parade in my home town

P. S.  If you want to meet Saint Marty in person and hear him read some poetry, come to the Peter White Library in Marquette, Michigan, tomorrow night at 7 p.m.  I'm participating in a reading and panel discussion on poetry and writing as part of the U. P. Book Tour.  Don't miss it.  I don't make too many public appearances these days.