Gratitude

The Fourth of July has long been one of my favorite holidays. When I was a kid, my dad would take my brother Ryan and me to 9th East in Provo early in the morning so we could save a spot along the parade route for our family. Ryan and I would sit on a blanket while my dad ran over to the McDonald's that used to be there to get us breakfast (hot cakes and orange juice for me, every year). Then Dad would drive back to Orem to pick up our mom and younger siblings while Ryan and I saved our spot. We felt so grown up, and our family always had excellent seats for the parade. After the parade, we'd go home for a bar-be-que or some other fun family lunch before heading back to Provo in the evening for the Stadium of Fire. Back then, I loved the Fourth of July simply because it was fun. McDonald's breakfast, parade, fireworks on a summer night ... as a kid it just didn't get any better.

The only July 4th of my youth that I didn't spend in that manner was July 4th, 1994, one month to the day before my 18th birthday. On that particular 4th of July I found myself in Gaza, Israel. I had traveled to the Netherlands and then to Israel as a performer in World Folkfests and had been in Israel for about a week at the time. Signs of war and of violence were all around. The sounds of gunfire in the distance were constant; armed military men and women stood guard on every street corner. We endured a bomb scare one morning and nearly missed our performance because we weren't allowed to leave our hotel. One day our tour guide told us that each Israeli boy and girl serves a mandatory two-year tour in the national army upon turning 18 years old. I realized that, had I been born in Israel and not in America, I myself would be one month from military service. The thought frightened and humbled me.

Amber, Katie, Karen and Greg, Israel 1994

The Israelis loved us Americans. Although performers from many different nations traveled with the Folkfest, it was the Americans who were mobbed. We couldn't go anywhere without people calling out to us, "America! America!" They took countless pictures with us. I noticed as we toured the country that it was saturated in American culture. Movie posters, music, T-shirts with American athletes on them, kids flashing peace signs in the photos they took with us. I often wondered what it was about America that so fascinated them. On the Fourth of July I was on an excruciatingly hot beach after having marched in a parade promoting our tour. I was sitting in the shadow of a telephone pole - the only shade anywhere - when the slightest breeze picked up off the ocean. I dropped my chin onto my chest so the breeze would cool the back of my neck, and I caught a glimpse of my name badge: "Katie Browne, USA" on a background of stars and stripes. And then I understood what it was that the Israelis so idealized. Freedom. Peace. Security. The realization affected me profoundly.

Carter at the Stadium of Fire, 2006

And now since I have become a mother, the Fourth of July holds even greater meaning for me. I think of the mothers who live in the middle east, in Africa, in nations of South America who can't feed their children, who watch their children suffer with disease, who worry each day over how to keep their little ones safe from violence. My heart breaks for those mothers. How fortunate are we who can raise our children in safety and peace, in a prosperous country whose laws and regulations still reflect something of a moral compass? How blessed are we who can watch our children grow and flourish as they determine for themselves who they will become? For these reasons, I am overcome by tears of gratitude with every Olympic games and World Cup tournament, with every salute to service men and women, with every boy scout troop bearing the Stars and Stripes, and with every singing of our national anthem. Because we are America. And although I might not always be proud to be an American, I am always, always grateful.