I’m not particularly proud to be an American; (aside from being, on the contrary, rather ashamed of many of our country’s policies, practices, and dominant attitudes, I think there’s something weird about taking pride in a condition that’s simply an accident of birth), but I am, admittedly, entirely amazed to live in a place and at a time where so astonishing a confluence of factors can come together with a such a bang—not to mention a pop, sizzle, woosh, crackle and ka-boom, as well.
Ironically, something so stereotypically American is really all about the Chinese; if not for the invention of gunpowder during the 9th century Tang dynasty; if not for all those factories in Liuyang, Hunan Province, the world’s capital of fireworks; if not for bicycle framemakers, mostly in Taiwan, it never could have happened that some four dozen people living in the United States, whose descendants, by and large (but not exclusively) emigrated from Great Britain and Continental Europe (including, in my case, the Ukraine) would be able to board a boat constructed in the Seattle area bound for an island named for an English commodore, to pedal through the wooded trails and over a bridge, ending up finally, at a Coast Salish Indian reservation in order for Native American vendors to sell Asian-made fireworks to be launched into the Pacific Northwest night on the eve, more or less, of our country’s traditional birthday, commemorating an event that took place an entire continent away, almost 250 years ago.
Of course, it also required the wayfaring expertise of Fancy Fred, who led us down (and up) those aforementioned trails with only an occasional backtracking and slow-motion endo; it’s hard to get completely lost on an island, but we did our best, although I was reminded that if you follow the path, you’ll eventually arrive, even if it’s by a different route.
Ultimately, no fingers blown off, no eyes put out, no wildfires started; success. Boom!
Ironically, something so stereotypically American is really all about the Chinese; if not for the invention of gunpowder during the 9th century Tang dynasty; if not for all those factories in Liuyang, Hunan Province, the world’s capital of fireworks; if not for bicycle framemakers, mostly in Taiwan, it never could have happened that some four dozen people living in the United States, whose descendants, by and large (but not exclusively) emigrated from Great Britain and Continental Europe (including, in my case, the Ukraine) would be able to board a boat constructed in the Seattle area bound for an island named for an English commodore, to pedal through the wooded trails and over a bridge, ending up finally, at a Coast Salish Indian reservation in order for Native American vendors to sell Asian-made fireworks to be launched into the Pacific Northwest night on the eve, more or less, of our country’s traditional birthday, commemorating an event that took place an entire continent away, almost 250 years ago.
Of course, it also required the wayfaring expertise of Fancy Fred, who led us down (and up) those aforementioned trails with only an occasional backtracking and slow-motion endo; it’s hard to get completely lost on an island, but we did our best, although I was reminded that if you follow the path, you’ll eventually arrive, even if it’s by a different route.
Ultimately, no fingers blown off, no eyes put out, no wildfires started; success. Boom!
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