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Description
What’s your favorite holiday? Ask this question of people on the street, and seventy-five percent of them would say Christmas, since free stuff is undeniably appealing. Another twenty percent would probably be split between the two factions of gluttons who prefer Thanksgiving or Halloween (the turkey faction vs. the candy faction), and the final five percent would be split between the rest of the myriad holidays that appear on our calendars.

Somewhere in that five percent would be a modest showing from July the Fourth, the date on which our Declaration of Independence was signed.

I don’t claim that the Fourth of July is my favorite holiday -- I am as susceptible to the lure of gifts and good food as any other person. I won’t even claim that it gets pushed to the back and forgotten in the face of other, more commercial holidays.

I will, however, assert that the true reason behind our celebration of July the Fourth has either been forgotten -- or has not been taught to most citizens of our nation, much as the reason behind Bonfire Night has been forgotten or omitted from history books in Great Britain.

There are many reasons for why America does what it does on the fourth of July. Cookouts, celebrations, fireworks, all are very American things, and the vast majority of our people have no trouble relaxing for a nice three day weekend and enjoying the festivities. Unfortunately, I can’t bring myself to do so with my whole heart. I have, this year, seen fireworks going off since July the first, like little overtures to the night of the Fourth. And every time I lay eyes on one of those immense fleurettes of fire and the smoky skeletons left behind, it seems that, just for a moment, I hear the roar of a cannon in the distance. I hear the muffled impact of the lead ball hitting the earth, see the soil and shrapnel being thrown up; I see blood spilled on snow.

I wonder how many Americans remember why we have made fireworks our symbol for the Fourth. I wonder how many know that their luminous beauty is meant to be a reminder of their deadly ancestors, of the terror and destruction of British mortar fire. I would wager that the number is low.

Two hundred and twenty-four years ago, in what was at that time New York City, occupied by the British Admiral Sir William Howe, a man stood on a wooden platform with a rope around his neck. His face was easy to recognize as a soldier’s by the speckled gunpowder burn that had scarred his cheek when he had fought, months earlier, in the siege of Boston city. His bearing was straight, his body athletic, his hair a sandy blonde; his lip was broken and bleeding, and his body was bruised beneath what remained of his tattered clothing. He was an educated man, a Yale graduate, and had been a schoolteacher in Connecticut. He had taken up arms when the call had gone out over the country for men of valor and patriotism to defend their fledgling nation, and he had become a soldier under George Washington. He was soon to become a martyr.

His name was Nathan Hale.

History does not record the manner of his capture. History tells us only that Nathan Hale was a spy for the Army of the United States, then the Continental Army, and, by most accounts, a poor choice for that position due to his frank and honest bearing. History also tells us that Nathan Hale, having confessed his purpose after being captured, was ordered to be hanged without trial by Admiral Sir William Howe on September the twenty-first, 1776.

History tells us one more thing about the death of Nathan Hale: his last words, delivered to the waiting General George Washington by a British captain the day after Nathan Hale’s execution. Most of us living in this country today have heard the last words of Nathan Hale, whether we know it or not; they are mentioned in history books with no name attached, or occasionally attributed to some other, more prominent figure of the Revolution, such as Patrick Henry or Thomas Paine. Very few people understand that these words were not spoken from behind a podium; they did not receive cheers and applause; they were spoken to Nathan Hale’s executioners while the rope that was to kill him was looped around his neck.

Nathan Hale’s last words were: “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”

I will never attempt to define patriotism, any more than I would attempt to define words such as honor, courage or love. But, whatever patriotism is, I would stake my life on the fact that Nathan Hale had it -- that his soul burned with it.

When he died, Nathan Hale was twenty-one years old. I, writing this on July the Fourth, 2008, am twenty years old. It is two hundred and twenty-four years after the death of Nathan Hale -- and in the same space of sky that his deadened eyes stared up at after he had hung for his country, fireworks now bloom like flowers against the night sky.

These are the thoughts that fill my head on July the Fourth, while I am enjoying my days off of work, and my hot dogs, and the company of my friends and family. These thoughts, these remembrances, are what occupy me every July.

I remember Nathan Hale, as a man, and as the face of thousands upon thousands of other men who had but one life each to lose for their country. I remember the men who saw a future brighter than the brightest firework -- and died in the face of enemy mortar fire, died and are dying still, so that I could live in that future, in this present.

Because of men like Nathan Hale, I am alive today. And for men like Nathan Hale, I will continue to live -- in honor of the lives they gave up.

I hope you will remember too; I hope that, this coming July the Fourth, you will join me in raising a paper cup full of punch and speaking, above your hot dogs and below your fireworks. I hope that free men and women all across this land of ours will remember, once a year, to honor the dead with these words:

“To Nathan Hale.”

Description
What’s your favorite holiday? Ask this question of people on the street, and seventy-five percent of them would say Christmas, since free stuff is undeniably appealing. Another twenty percent would probably be split between the two factions of gluttons who prefer Thanksgiving or Halloween (the turkey faction vs. the candy faction), and the final five percent would be split between the rest of the myriad holidays that appear on our calendars.

Somewhere in that five percent would be a modest showing from July the Fourth, the date on which our Declaration of Independence was signed.

I don’t claim that the Fourth of July is my favorite holiday -- I am as susceptible to the lure of gifts and good food as any other person. I won’t even claim that it gets pushed to the back and forgotten in the face of other, more commercial holidays.

I will, however, assert that the true reason behind our celebration of July the Fourth has either been forgotten -- or has not been taught to most citizens of our nation, much as the reason behind Bonfire Night has been forgotten or omitted from history books in Great Britain.

There are many reasons for why America does what it does on the fourth of July. Cookouts, celebrations, fireworks, all are very American things, and the vast majority of our people have no trouble relaxing for a nice three day weekend and enjoying the festivities. Unfortunately, I can’t bring myself to do so with my whole heart. I have, this year, seen fireworks going off since July the first, like little overtures to the night of the Fourth. And every time I lay eyes on one of those immense fleurettes of fire and the smoky skeletons left behind, it seems that, just for a moment, I hear the roar of a cannon in the distance. I hear the muffled impact of the lead ball hitting the earth, see the soil and shrapnel being thrown up; I see blood spilled on snow.

I wonder how many Americans remember why we have made fireworks our symbol for the Fourth. I wonder how many know that their luminous beauty is meant to be a reminder of their deadly ancestors, of the terror and destruction of British mortar fire. I would wager that the number is low.

Two hundred and twenty-four years ago, in what was at that time New York City, occupied by the British Admiral Sir William Howe, a man stood on a wooden platform with a rope around his neck. His face was easy to recognize as a soldier’s by the speckled gunpowder burn that had scarred his cheek when he had fought, months earlier, in the siege of Boston city. His bearing was straight, his body athletic, his hair a sandy blonde; his lip was broken and bleeding, and his body was bruised beneath what remained of his tattered clothing. He was an educated man, a Yale graduate, and had been a schoolteacher in Connecticut. He had taken up arms when the call had gone out over the country for men of valor and patriotism to defend their fledgling nation, and he had become a soldier under George Washington. He was soon to become a martyr.

His name was Nathan Hale.

History does not record the manner of his capture. History tells us only that Nathan Hale was a spy for the Army of the United States, then the Continental Army, and, by most accounts, a poor choice for that position due to his frank and honest bearing. History also tells us that Nathan Hale, having confessed his purpose after being captured, was ordered to be hanged without trial by Admiral Sir William Howe on September the twenty-first, 1776.

History tells us one more thing about the death of Nathan Hale: his last words, delivered to the waiting General George Washington by a British captain the day after Nathan Hale’s execution. Most of us living in this country today have heard the last words of Nathan Hale, whether we know it or not; they are mentioned in history books with no name attached, or occasionally attributed to some other, more prominent figure of the Revolution, such as Patrick Henry or Thomas Paine. Very few people understand that these words were not spoken from behind a podium; they did not receive cheers and applause; they were spoken to Nathan Hale’s executioners while the rope that was to kill him was looped around his neck.

Nathan Hale’s last words were: “I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country.”

I will never attempt to define patriotism, any more than I would attempt to define words such as honor, courage or love. But, whatever patriotism is, I would stake my life on the fact that Nathan Hale had it -- that his soul burned with it.

When he died, Nathan Hale was twenty-one years old. I, writing this on July the Fourth, 2008, am twenty years old. It is two hundred and twenty-four years after the death of Nathan Hale -- and in the same space of sky that his deadened eyes stared up at after he had hung for his country, fireworks now bloom like flowers against the night sky.

These are the thoughts that fill my head on July the Fourth, while I am enjoying my days off of work, and my hot dogs, and the company of my friends and family. These thoughts, these remembrances, are what occupy me every July.

I remember Nathan Hale, as a man, and as the face of thousands upon thousands of other men who had but one life each to lose for their country. I remember the men who saw a future brighter than the brightest firework -- and died in the face of enemy mortar fire, died and are dying still, so that I could live in that future, in this present.

Because of men like Nathan Hale, I am alive today. And for men like Nathan Hale, I will continue to live -- in honor of the lives they gave up.

I hope you will remember too; I hope that, this coming July the Fourth, you will join me in raising a paper cup full of punch and speaking, above your hot dogs and below your fireworks. I hope that free men and women all across this land of ours will remember, once a year, to honor the dead with these words:

“To Nathan Hale.”