Independence Day

I am a punk of the first order. Yet, I have the best friends in the world. I have a family that will support me in any way I like.

I know nothing of oppression, save the heat and humidity of Mississippi summers. I know nothing of slavery, save the poor wages of the television news business. I know nothing of royal tyranny, save the waning hold the Kennedy’s still maintain on American politics.

I am a man who appreciates his independence.

The Fourth of July has always been one of my favorite days of the year. From bottle rockets at Grandpa and Grandma Price’s house, to bottle rocket fights with my old neighborhood’s ne’er-do-wells, to drunkenly singing Lee Greenwood songs with 50 of my closest friends at 1931 Juniper Circle and screaming “Fuck England” at the top of our lungs just to prove how much we love our country and the right to scream such things…Independence Day has always held a special appeal for me.

The last few years I’ve worked on the Fourth. The past two years I’ve interviewed the same woman about her niece who disappeared on Independence Day 1999. She doesn’t enjoy the holiday anymore. It is a day of Missing Persons posters and wondering where all her niece’s friends have gone. Brooke disappeared three years ago and her friends pretty much disappeared after that. They found a way to put it all in the back of their collective mind. Independence, of sorts.

I’ve spent the last few days hinged to the word “appreciation.” I don’t have a lot to give the people and fates that have given me so much. I routinely disrespect all I’ve been given. I selfishly wallowing in my own interests. The only way I can rationalize my indiscretions is to let everyone and everything know how much I appreciate them.

I’m not sure I can change who I am. I’m not sure if I really want to.

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