It's 9PM on July 4th. My son is running up and down the street with my husband, watching our neighbors set off illegal fireworks while my daughter sleeps next to me on the couch, passed out fully naked in front of Nick Jr. because 12 straight hours of hot dogs and chocolate chip cookies and swimming exhausted her to the point where not even a brand-new episode of Paw Patrol could keep her eyes open.
I thought a lot about America today. I had a client who wanted me to post about what makes me proud to be an American, and it took me awhile to answer. I didn't even know if I wanted to answer the question, because when I think about my country, "pride" isn't the first word that comes to mind at the moment.
Then I got to thinking about the first time I was embarrassed to say I was American. George W. Bush was president, and I was doing a semester at University College London. I wanted to hide my face in my hands every time someone said the President's name. Sometimes I just told people I was from Canada, so they didn't automatically assume I was a jerk.