Today's ride home from dialysis was piloted by one of the few Russian drivers who speaks decent English and engages with his favorite passengers. I hit it off with the guy a little over a year ago, when we sang along with songs on CBS 101, so now when I get him as my driver he immediately turns on the radio in hope of a singalong. Unfortunately, today was the 4th of July, so CBS played a marathon of played-to-death '80's songs, including "Come On Eileen," which was my least-favorite pop hit from my high school years. I could see he was discouraged that I was not singing along, but then Whitney Houston's live version of "The Star-Spangled Banner" came on and he enthusiastically drummed along with it on the steering wheel. He kept cutting me looks via the rear view mirror, apparently expecting me to be overcome with patriotic fervor on this day of days, but I instead looked out of the window or otherwise avoided his gaze. While he speaks rudimentary English, there was no way that I, a person with slave and slaughtered indigenous heritage, could explain to the guy that the 4th of July holds no meaning for me. I'm glad that he left his oppressive homeland for a country where he could feel free, but for some of us this is a very fraught holiday. My ancestors certainly had nothing to celebrate when (white) America gained its independence.
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