I like to celebrate Independence Day in the broadest sense of the words. I became homeless the morning after my 18th birthday, and I usually think of that day as Independence Day. Other days are in the running, though. When I was 10 my family moved to Canada and we lived in a two-room log cabin – 6 kids – without electricity or plumbing for three years.
That familial segue sticks in my mind as a candidate for Independence Day because there was no television or radio. The only escape was in books. While there, I went to school on an Indian reservation run by nuns from Ireland. I spoke okay English, and consequently, the nuns treated me like I was a smart kid. That had never happened before. And I read and escaped and became Independent.
In the 7th grade a guy named Fred Olson agreed to answer my questions about algebra. I had always been a poor math student, but Fred spent two hours with me and helped me figure it out. After that, I thought that math was interesting and exciting. Hallelujah, and talk about Independence Day!
When I enrolled in college in the Fall of ‘67, I answered a Roommate Wanted ad run by two guys who were graduate students in the School of Physics. I was so widely read I could sort of fake an understanding of their world – science, classical music, Goethe, dinner parties, political history – and we got along okay. Meeting and living with them was class mobility on steroids, and I learned that thinking is fun. Every day is Independence Day for thinkers.
The most curious thing about my homeless period is that I didn’t know I was homeless. I lived in a 1953 Chrysler Imperial for several months. But because my family was so FUBAR my standard of living went up. I got a full-time job at night, and graduated from high school and went to college. I went to mass every day – because I needed a family – and went on my first date. And I was Independent.
I hope your Independence Days have all been happy ones. Mine have been pretty good.