No Stars, Just Stripes This Year

How It Feels to Love a Country That’s Losing It

This week leads into the Fourth of July, and for the first time in years, I don’t feel like celebrating.

When I lived overseas, in either Japan, Turkey, and England, I used to get a satisfying little thrill whenever I saw the American flag. It felt like a reminder of home. Of ideals. Of the myth, maybe, but still, mostly the hope that we were trying to be better.

I don’t feel that anymore.

For context: We lived in Istanbul from August 2000-August 2002. A 99% Muslim country. A sprawling, overwhelming city. I was a white, Christian American woman with three small children and minimal understanding of the language.

On 9/11/2001 I didn’t know what to expect. What I got was kindness.

My Turkish neighbors brought pizza, water, and tea. They cried with us. They sat with us. They asked if my family back home was safe. Their compassion and calm helped steady me when I felt unmoored. I will never forgot it.

Fast-forward to 2003. My husband and I, living near London at the time, planned a belated anniversary trip to Paris. We took the Metro into the city, climbed the stairs to the street, and stepped straight into a massive anti-war protest. We knew what day it was. It was March 19—"Shock and awe" day. The beginning of the U.S. invasion of Iraq. But this trip had been planned for months in advance.

We looked at each other and muttered, “Definitely Canadian today,” then ducked into a boulangerie for bread and wine and retreated to our hotel, where we watched the explosions on CNN International, stunned and silent.

Being American abroad has always been complicated. Sometimes it made me proud. Other times it made me ashamed. But I always felt something. These days, I mostly feel numb.

After this week’s Supreme Court decision, effectively stripping states of their power to hold a rogue president accountable, I feel more grief than ever. Not because I hate this country, but because I love it, and the fact that I used to believe we were better than this.

Now? I don’t know what we are.

What I do know is that I’m about to start helping my youngest daughter plan her wedding. And that I want her to feel joy, even as the world spins sideways. Maybe especially then.

So no fireworks this year. Just reflection. No stars. Just stripes.

And drinks, of course.

—In the words of one of my kids, in a grad school essay, long after the dust of our expat years had settled

🍸 This Week’s Menu

• The Burnt Constitution
  Bourbon, bitters, a twist of lemon, and a rim of smoked salt. Serve over ice and read the Bill of Rights while you still can.

• The Hope Float (Mocktail)
  Sparkling water, muddled raspberries, lime juice, and fresh mint. Garnish with the vague memory of progress.

• The Exit Strategy
  Gin, elderflower liqueur, cucumber, and tonic. Chill it like your passport. Sip while looking up dual citizenship requirements.

• Red, White, and Bruised (Wine Pick)
  A moody red blend or crisp white from a state that still believes in voting rights (Oregon Pinots come to mind). Pairs well with whatever-this-is and deep sighs at sunset.

• Beer Pick:

  Whatever’s local, independent, and brewed by someone who thinks fascism is a bad look.

If you're still reading, thanks. I'm doing my best to hold space for heartbreak and joy at the same time. And if you are too, you're not alone.

Stars or no stars, we’re still here.

xoxo

Liz