Dear America,
When I was a girl, I learned a definition for freedom the gist of which has stuck with me over decades since I saw the U. S. of A. through the eyes of a starstruck child wearing a red, white, and blue jumper with a sparkler in each hand. The definition that I have never forgotten is this: My freedom ends where yours begins.
America, a personal analysis would no doubt fall short. Might questions suffice?
How much space do I get to take up in the world?
How many resources do I get to consume, control, possess?
Can I scream “FIRE!” in a dry forest on Independence Day just because I feel like it?
And on the subject of fires, what does it mean when a wildfire in Canada can ruin the air in Chicago and Detroit?
Should a woman’s right to be in possession of her own body be eradicated by people without wombs?
Should the medical industrial complex get to present treatment plans biased to benefit its bottom line?
Call me ridiculous, but should American wolves and owls and rattlers have free speech and the right to bear arms? How about American rivers? forests? wetlands?
Should alternatives to consumer culture be punished because they diminish shareholder returns?
How many acres of vineyards or almond groves does the country rightly need?
What’s the use of recycling when it has nowhere to go?
Should one’s zip code determine the potential to earn a college degree or to live past the age of 70?
Do these questions even begin to explain what it means that my freedom ends where yours begins?
Dear America, I don’t know. But, if we spent more time asking questions than pointing fingers, would we get closer to understanding what it means to be free?
Love,
One of your daughters who still loves sparklers
