The Privilege of Disagreement

“What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming.”

As Saturday night’s fireworks finale lit up the sky and the grills cooled off sometime after sunset, Americans finally gave in to sleep after squeezing every last bit of life out of a long summer day.

After sundown, when the noise softened and the sky returned to its familiar darkness, I found myself sitting at home with my son, replaying the evening in my mind. A memory came back to me from July 4th, 2022, when he was about eighteen months old and I wrote something down, as dads sometimes do, and it read:

“As twilight beckons its last gleam following a laborious day outside, a diapered boy full of life and post‑bath vigor sprints his way to the lazy boy and wastes no time climbing up onto dad’s lap. Peering into the corner with wonder at the American flag, he curiously points and with a smile looks up and says ‘Dada on?’

Recollecting my wonder at his age, I got up and opened the broad stripes and bright stars in full display to a little boy grinning at something whose weight he cannot yet fathom.

A day filled with running, playing, swimming and action isn’t enough to slow down our Newest Life, despite the very little rest he got today. On our nation’s 246th birthday, I am reminded of the life of our country. Its many perils and triumphs. The growing pains and the progress that followed.

But, like the life of a little boy, our country continues to discover who it is and where it’s going. Eyes filled with wonder and curiosity, it seeks opportunity to forge its way. A way that sometimes causes bumps, bruises, and scrapes. An independent way.

And despite those trying to divide our great nation, we are still like that little boy. Standing full of life and vigor in awe of something whose weight we cannot yet fathom, ready to face the challenges so inevitable and necessary for growth.”

He is older now. Taller, louder, and still full of vigor, but now full of questions too. This year he watched the fireworks with more understanding and even more commentary, wanting to know how they worked, who paid for them, who made them, and why we even celebrate the Fourth of July with fireworks.

Those questions lingered with me long after he fell asleep.

Independence Day is easy to celebrate in color, in red bursts of brocade crowns over the trees and blue chrysanthemums flickering against the dark sky before the final volley rises together and dissolves into drifting white smoke. It is spectacle and tradition and shared memory all at once.

But like the American flag in my previous musing, there is something more foundational that does not fade when the smoke clears. Something that carries more weight.

Two and a half centuries ago, our country chose self government, and ordinary citizens accepted the responsibility of shaping laws, settling disagreements, and determining direction together. That choice required more than courage in a single moment. It required a willingness to keep showing up long after the moment passed, long after the applause faded.

That same responsibility lives on today, though it rarely comes with fireworks as an indicator. It shows up under the bright LED lights in our council chamber, in the rows of chairs filled with our neighbors who care enough to attend, in the shuffle of papers before a vote and in the voice at the microphone offering a different point of view.

Recently, as our community has considered how best to represent a piece of our own history, the conversations have been thoughtful and at times strained. Honestly, disagreement has a way of doing that. It can feel uncomfortable and it can tempt us to withdraw or to assume the worst of one another.

Yet when I step back from the moment to get what I all the "30,000 foot view," what I see is citizenship in motion.

Citizenship asks us to listen even when we disagree, to speak carefully when emotions run high, and to remember that the person across the aisle is someone we will see again at school events, in local shops, or in line at the grocery store on an ordinary weekday morning. It asks us to demand accountability while also granting what is justly owed to public servants: respect, patience, and the presumption of good faith until evidence proves otherwise.

Self government depends on that memory, because it is built on the understanding that we are not adversaries passing through, but neighbors who remain.

At home and in public meetings, we are practicing the habits of a free people. We resolve differences without fear. We advocate without silence. We accept outcomes and prepare to participate again the next time, knowing the process belongs to all of us.

If I may be frank, and I usually am, that practice is not easy. It takes time, testing, and experience. A child does not grow without testing limits and finding his voice, and a community does not grow without wrestling with questions that have outcomes.

As I watched my son look up in awe at the fireworks this year, smile on his face as they broke into a beautiful display of artistry, I realized that part of what I hope he inherits is not just the celebration, but the responsibility that comes with it. I hope he inherits a country and a community where disagreement is handled with steadiness and where conviction does not crowd out respect. I hope he sees adults who care deeply and speak honestly without losing sight of one another’s humanity.

The fireworks have faded for another year, but the work continues quietly in rooms without spectacle. That work is self government, and it rests in the hands of citizens.

When my son asked me why we celebrate the Fourth of July, I could honestly tell him that we celebrate the ongoing opportunity to shape our community together, even when we see the path differently, and that this opportunity is not something to fear but something to steward well.