Independence Day

The Fourth of July arrived to me on a humid Tuesday in the neighborhood of Lincoln Park.  My parents were having a barbeque at their house on the Northwest side of Chicago.  I declined the invitation I was given over the phone so that I could partake in the festivities that where to take place in my neighborhood that night, fireworks by the lake.  I wanted to be independent on the day that existed to celebrate independence.  Before I left my apartment to walk along the lakefront I placed my keys in my back pocket.  I left at seven so that I would be able to stay out for a while to see the fireworks.

The path along Lake Michigan glowed with the energy of youth.  Men walked shirtless, women wearing bathing suits.  People of all different ethnicities adorned the path.  Families sat on the stairs above the path, watching the passerbys’ while eating food from picnic baskets and talking among themselves.  People strolled with leashed dogs, and I even saw a man carrying a cat over his shoulder.  Being able to be a part of such a palette of shades and colors felt rewarding, exhilarating, and challenging at the same time; challenging because the energy of the crowd allowed me to find that same energy that was inside of me, and exert it, through my gate, through the way that I carried myself.

The mobs were thick and I found myself walking at a slow pace to keep up.  I didn’t know anyone personally but I felt like I was walking among my best friends.  Blankets plastered with illustrations of cartoon characters and Disney princesses were spread out on the cement in front of the crystal turquoise water.  During the winter I walk or run this path almost alone, except for the few brave souls that can bear the bitter cold.  Those cold nights the only sound I can hear along the lake is the hum of the water fading to and from the shore and the buzz of traffic that passes through Lake Shore Drive above me.  When I ran in the cold I was free of any responsibilities, and I felt free.

I walked up the path to the block across from Navy Pier and did a figure eight back into the chaos of vivacity.  I planned on pursuing the trail up to Fullerton and Lake Shore Drive and then finding a spot to sit and watch the fireworks.  During my walk the path had three levels of depth; completely dense, partially occupied, or almost empty except for a few stragglers.  When I walked with these dwellers of Chicago I felt free of the everyday, of the mundane, because we were celebrating a special occasion.  I made the turn in front of the Italian ice shack diagonal of Navy Pier to find a partially occupied space.  Throughout the night I had made eye contact with people, but I never had addressed anyone with the confidence of a smile until a short woman with light brown skin crossed my path.  She grinned at me and I grinned back.  The way she displaced herself from the people of the crowd that surrounded her seemed surreal.  I could define her presence and the look in her soft brown eyes as empty, but our connection was the most personal that I found that night.  Still, it lacked the energy of the crowd.   

When I reached my destination I plopped myself down on the cement in front of the water.  To my left swimming on the water there was a duck surrounded by two ducklings.  I zoned out and watched them before looking up to the boom of fireworks that matched the explosion of color in the sky.  Circles of red, white and blue rose above me, and I realized that I found a dependency on happiness on independence day.  I was free.