Today is July 5, 2020, the day after the United States's 244th birthday, and the day before my 50th birthday.
I thought of a really good way to tie these two events together while I was in the bathroom earlier today, but didn't write that thought down, and now cannot remember. It was good, though.
So yeah, yesterday was white America's national holiday, and I really have no fucks to give about it. We're six weeks in to what I feel is a watershed moment, the catalyst of which was the brutal murder of George Floyd at the hands knee of a police officer. There's so much more to it, and so many other writers—who are more knowledgeable and practiced than I am—have written millions of words about it.
There's no doubt that this country is in crisis, but this reckoning has been a long time coming. The crux for me is this: The United States is soon to become a "minority-majority" nation, and that scares the pants off the white supremacists. (Trust me, I am well aware that this nation was founded on the notion of white supremacy and its wealth was built on the backs of enslaved people.) And a bunch of white people LOST THEIR MINDS when Americans elected a Black man as President. Which is why we have a noted racist and below-average white man who's accomplished very little on his own merit as our President* today.
*I'm using the asterisk here as writer Charles Pierce does when he refers to the current occupant of The White House.
All this is news to exactly no one, but because it's been ages since I've actually written a blog entry, I felt like explaining that yes, I am aware of what's happening in this godforsaken country at the moment.
So what does this have to do with my birthday? Not much, I think.
Except! We're in the middle of a pandemic! Which has been mismanaged by the federal government! (Shout out to Kentucky's governor Andy Beshear for his leadership for the past four months.)
And the pandemic means that I can't celebrate my 50th birthday the way I had planned to, which was—no joke—a long weekend in Cleveland to visit the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame. And then I was planning to travel to Switzerland and France to visit my children later this year, but the European Union** has essentially banned Americans from entering as of July 1.
**I know that Switzerland is not part of the EU! god, why am I so defensive? I hate that I have to explain that I know things. I think it's because I don't know who will be reading this, because I'm planning to put this link out into the world.
So neither of those trips is happening, and I've had to come to terms with celebrating this milestone birthday in a different way, a very low-key way. I know it shouldn't matter. Fifty is a number, but American society makes such a big deal about people turning 50. Is it because arriving at that age meant you'd kept death at bay? I don't know. I do know that my life is more than half over, unless I take after my great-uncle R., who lived to be 101.
I don't feel fifty years old in my head. My body is another story. And until a few weeks ago, I didn't really care about turning 50. Something about this pandemic (and the actual date, and the fact that I can't celebrate the way I want to) flipped a switch in my brain, and I'm apprehensive. Societal pressure is a bitch, and the pressure to look good is especially a bitch. The rational part of me is saying, "Pffft. You're fifty. Be glad for it!" The irrational part of me is screaming, "YOU'RE FIFTY. YOU LOOK LIKE SHIT AND YOU'RE GONNA DIIIIIEEEEE!"
Tomorrow evening, A. and I are getting takeout from one of the nicer restaurants in town. He bought a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rosé champagne and a French-style fruit tart. I originally said I just wanted a cupcake, but I changed my mind and asked for the tart. I'm hosting a Zoom with my parental units and siblings after dinner. As far as I know, I don't have any gifts to unwrap, but it's okay. I have enough stuff and life itself is a gift right now. It really is.