America is not its government and normal does not mean right
t was a nasty, low-down week so I bought myself a 38 Special. I got it from a peddler down by the river. “Look to the sky before you buy,” the peddler warned. “No refunds!”
I was way ahead of him. There are no takebacks on the Fourth of July in 2025, only take-froms. No refunds, only defunds. AI takes jobs and ICE takes people and cruelty takes its toll.
That’s why I got a 38 Special: fifty ride tickets for thirty-eight dollars, to be shared by me and my husband and our two children, for one last round of memories.
We were in St. Charles, Missouri, the town where Lewis and Clark departed for their 1804 expedition. Their westward journey led to the creation of the contiguous United States and the genocide of indigenous tribes and, ultimately, to the Riverfest Fourth of July celebration my family was attending with thousands of people from hundreds of backgrounds, all now called Americans — a designation the Trump administration wants to strip away.
I wondered what Lewis and Clark would think of the festivities. Clark would probably approve. He was governor of the Missouri Territory and as such loved pomp and violence. Clark is not merely buried in St. Louis, but, as his tomb proclaims, “interred under the obelisk.” As for Lewis, he blew his brains out on the Natchez Trace. No one knows why. Maybe he could see America coming.
My carnival ride ticket package was named after the .38 Special revolver cartridge. Gun culture is inescapable in Missouri.
Every Fourth of July, St. Louis plays a guessing game called “Guns or Fireworks.” The goal is to detect whether the explosions we hear are sky sparklers or deadly weapons, both fired in celebration. A St. Louis child can tell the difference by the time they are old enough to talk and horrify adults with their newfound skill set.
“Guns or Fireworks” isn’t normal? the child asks, and I say, Normal’s what you’re used to, and you know nothing else. Then I pack up the car to show them other ways of life.
Normal has been given too wide a berth, one I try to narrow when I discuss history or current events. Normal is often a cover story for wrong. Slavery was normal. Genocide was normal. “White-collar crime”, “collateral damage”, “ethnic cleansing”: normal. Euphemized, euthanized, eulogized.
The concentration camp the Trump administration built in Florida is being marketed as normal. It has a cheeky name and merchandise. Right now, it disgusts many Americans. As concentration camps become more common, they will offend fewer people — and they will be called normal. When this happens, you must remember that normal is not the same as right, no more than law is the same as justice.
* * *
Riverfest was full of fun, unsafe rides. My daughter and I headed for the Ferris wheel. Comforting dad rock blared from the speakers. “You don’t know how it feels,” Tom Petty wailed, and I sang along, “You don’t know how it feels—”
“No, you don’t know how it feels,” a carnie joined in, pointing at me and grinning.
“To be me-e-e-e-e-e-e!” the carnie and I sang in unison, pointing at ourselves, then high-fiving each other. My daughter watched us in fascination and horror.
“Tom fuckin’ Petty!” the carnie exclaimed. I agreed.
He told us to buckle in for a real good ride. I wondered if he always wanted to be a carnie or if it just happened. He looked around my age. Our generation didn’t have dreams: we had circumstances. Boomers bought the ticket and we took the ride, round and round on a rotting wheel. On the rare occasions we hit the top, we treasured the view before the plunge.
I felt happier on the Ferris wheel than I had in a long while. I was sure this was not wasted time. There was a breeze, there was my daughter, and a view of our future plans below. The Scrambler, a decrepit sun-torched spinner which burned me as it thrilled me. The homemade Plinko game run by a charity where we all won free prizes and bought a bottle of hot sauce to compensate. The halal food truck staffed by hijab-wearing women blaring country music. The man in star-spangled suspenders playing the saxophone in a blissed-out groove. The Black BBQ stands, the Thai ice tea shacks, the Germans offering “the best wurst”.
We could see all of America from St. Charles. The scene was unpredictable and wild and generous: the opposite of the money-drenched fascist bill passed one day before.
* * *
The first time my children saw fireworks was in 2016. My youngest was five, and I decided he was old enough to go to Riverfest after dark. I also knew who would win the election, and I was scared this would be the last Fourth of July. Or that Riverfest would become something rigid and xenophobic and cruel, impossible to celebrate even as a contradiction. That fear never waned.
There are missing years: the 2019 flood that canceled the event and led us to a carnival at the Ozzie Smith Sports Complex where Pat Benatar was inexplicably performing; the missing early covid years; the blank summer of 2023, when personal tragedy left me in a stupor, unable to leave home. 2025 feels like that too, but I pushed through. If 2025 has a lesson, it’s to make memories while you can.
On the Fourth of July, if we get lucky, we buy fried Oreos and picnic by the Missouri River. Fried Oreos are my favorite dessert, but I only eat them when they are fleeting, like at a festival. Once I found a restaurant that served them, but it felt wrong. Fried Oreos are the morels of junk food: they must be found in the wild to be enjoyed.
We watched a family of geese play, goslings toddling on the muddy shore. I did not know it, but as we enjoyed our day, floods were killing dozens in Texas, including children. On social media, liberals left vicious comments claiming Texas deserved it: comments like the ones I get when Missouri is hit with natural disasters. Comments similar to the vile appraisal of migrant children, whom Trump supporters want imprisoned; or of Palestinian children, whom fanatical Zionists believe deserve death.
There is something soul-shattering about seeing people enjoy the suffering of a child. You hope that such hateful people are not real, that they are bots or operatives, but they often are not. They are people who believe the worst cruelty is so normal that they can express it without social penalty.
There are also people who will mourn one group of children, but not others: as if every lost child were not a tragedy, as if all parents did not grieve. Part of me cannot believe that the inherent humanity and innocence of children needs to be spelled out, but the depth of callousness necessitates it.
“Unspeakable tragedy,” people used to say, meaning sadness so deep it cannot be expressed. But we must speak of tragedies as tragedies, and of cruelty as cruelty. When we don’t, it becomes “normal” — or even celebrated. Early 20th century postcards depicting Black babies being fed to alligators are circulating on the Trump-era internet.
These are death cult days. What was I celebrating on the Fourth of July? Life, outside of this inhumane version of America. Life, in a version of America as vibrant and real as the sadist nightmare that seeks to suppress it. Life, while we have it.
There was not one immigrant at Riverfest for whom I did not fear deportation or incarceration — and non-immigrants, too. A government does not pass a bill designating a record amount of money for secret police without sweeping intent.
We didn’t use all the tickets in my 38 Special. We gave the rest to a family with small children, who shrieked at their good fortune. My husband and I remembered when our children were small, and people did that for us. We want the chain to continue.
We didn’t return for the fireworks either. Months ago, my daughter, now technically an adult, had purchased a Minion firework at a gas station. She and her brother wanted to watch their childhood favorite explode. I could hear them from my bedroom that night, laughing. I could hear gunshots too.
I took comfort in the sound. Not in my perverse ability to tell the difference between guns and fireworks, but in knowing why the guns were being fired.
For now.
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