OPINION:
Every five years, to celebrate their reign, Roman emperors sponsored a festival that usually included gladiatorial fights, combats against ferocious animals, chariot races, boxing and wrestling matches, and theatrical performances.
Naturally, as memories of the republic faded and the stoicism and sobriety of self-government gave way to a solid and enduring preference for breads and circuses, these festivals became more violent, more drunken and, well, just generally worse.
In such an environment, it is not surprising that an increasing percentage of Romans chose to become dependent on the state and were willing to forgo the burdens and benefits of being Roman citizens.
By the end of the first century, for instance, most of the Roman troops were noncitizens. It is not difficult to draw a straight line from the deterioration of the value that citizens placed on citizenship to the deterioration of the empire, which commenced in earnest in that same century.
I was thinking about all this in light of the upcoming celebration of the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence.
The vibe surrounding the semiquincentennial is not one of unbridled celebration, and it is apparent there is little enthusiasm for the scheduled festivities.
It was much the same during the bicentennial back in 1976. Then, as now, lots of things were going wrong. A little more than a year before that particular July Fourth, we definitively lost our first war. The economy was in the ditch, gas prices were high, and the Soviets looked unbeatable.
Yet we celebrated the nation’s 200th birthday despite a widespread sense that things had really gone wrong and that there was no assurance they would ever get put right again.
The context for much of this year’s celebration is not much better, nor does it help that some of the celebration will mimic a Roman imperial festival, right down to the triumphal arch, chariot races and the wrestling (although, to be fair, the Roman wrestling was an actual sport, not a soap opera for middle-aged dudes).
There are some important differences between 1976 and now. In 1976, our leaders were, almost uniformly, men who had won World War II and were in the process of winning the Cold War.
These were not loud men; they neither needed nor wanted proclamations affirming their patriotism. They had moved beyond all that in places such as Guadalcanal and Bastogne and Okinawa. They realized that no speeches or fireworks could do justice to their fellow soldiers, Marines, airmen and sailors who died on sinking ships, burning tanks and battlefields far from home and who had given their last full measure of devotion to the nation.
Patriotism, for them, was the quiet voice that drives you to volunteer and reminds you that your fathers, brothers, cousins and nephews took their place in line before you. For others, patriotism is the still, silent recognition that maybe you have made enough cash and it is time to do something else to give back to the nation.
For some, patriotism is the lonely desperation of a mother or a father whose child or children are far from home and soon to be in harm’s way.
All the noise and spectacle in the world will not change any of that.
Americans are going to commemorate Independence Day pretty much like they always do: with small-town parades, fireworks, hanging out with the family in the backyard, going to the lake or the beach. Maybe drinking a little too much.
This low-key approach is in keeping with our unspoken yet abiding confidence in the future and our belief in the quiet sort of patriotism that built this nation.
On this July Fourth, try to ignore all the ancillary nonsense and noise — what Juvenal called the breads and circuses — and be grateful for those who still answer the call to patriotism. They provide reason enough to be optimistic about our future.
• Michael McKenna is a contributing editor at The Washington Times.
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