Freedom, Fries, and Fussing

I was standing in line at the post office the other day, which is where I seem to overhear the finest bits of accidental philosophy. That day’s prize came from a fella two folks ahead of me in line.

He was on the phone, loudly complaining about how “this country’s gone to hell” and how “nothing works anymore.” Judging by the fact that he was holding an Amazon return in one hand and a Starbucks cup in the other, I figured the apocalypse hadn’t quite finished the job.

Don’t get me wrong—I’ve done my fair share of grumbling. I’ve cussed out potholes, taxes, and every political ad that ever dared interrupt my westerns. But it’s always felt to me that complaining about your country while still enjoying all its perks is a bit like a teenager stomping around the house yelling “I hate it here!”—while still eating homemade lasagna, enjoying air conditioning, and using the Wi-Fi to post said complaints.

I said something like that to my son. He was about nineteen and opposed to optimism at the time.

“You don’t get it,” he said, rolling his eyes with such force I swear I heard them click. “You grew up in a different time.”

“Yes,” I replied, “a time when you had to get up to change the TV channel, and we only had three to choose from.”

That didn’t impress him much.

The truth is, this country isn’t perfect. It never has been.

We’ve had fights, failings, and frictions from the very beginning. But we’ve also had front porches, fireworks, and folks who bring casseroles when your life falls apart, and I figure that still counts for something.

Back when I was younger and louder, I remember mouthing off about America in front of my granddad. He was a man of few words and suspenders that looked like they’d seen some battles.

He looked at me and said, “Boy, this country gives you the right to say whatever you want. It doesn’t mean you’re always right, just that you’re allowed to be wrong out loud.”

He paused then, stirred his coffee, and added, “But try saying the same thing somewhere else, and they might not just argue with you—they might shoot you.”

That stuck.

Sometimes I think we confuse inconvenience with oppression. The internet lags for three seconds, and we act like we’re in the wilderness.

Someone disagrees with us online, and suddenly we’re victims of a grand conspiracy. But I’ve seen real hardship, and let me tell you—it doesn’t look like a slightly overcooked latte or a TSA line that moves too slow.

I still gripe about gas prices. But I also know I live in a place where I can write my thoughts, cast a vote, start a business, or take a nap under a tree without asking permission.

So yes, we fuss. We complain.

That’s part of being American, but let’s not forget that even when this country is getting overrun by teenagers slamming doors, it’s still our home. And despite all the noise, it’s a mighty good one.

Especially if there’s pie.