On the 4th of July, I accompanied a friend to a musical jam session in a beautiful backyard overlooking San Diego. Cupcakes and fireworks aside, something happened that had a great impact on my perception of freedom.
The musicians gathered were among some of the more established local talent, and they rocked. One drummer in a Hawaiian shirt and cowboy hat was very smooth and skillful; I learned he had been a close associate of Buddy Miles. A long-haired bass player had fingers made, apparently, of the same material as Gumby. Then there was a sultry blonde vocalist whose blues gave me the chills.
It wasn’t long before I noticed a woman flitting about the party in a world of her own. She was bone thin in a denim shirt about seven sizes too big, a woolen beenie over her head, and thick glasses that covered most of her face. While the band played, she danced wildly in the grass. Between sets she sauntered up to the microphone and sang something garbled, then said, “Yay, me!” The other guests in attendance more or less ignored her, although there were a few chuckles.
At one point the drummer in the Hawaiian shirt came up to The Loon (as I had begun to think of her), put his arm around her shoulder, and offered an explanation about her being his wife. When people laughed I assumed he was making one of those flippant jokes that helps make an awkward situation more comfortable, at the expense of the individual responsible for the awkwardness.
Soon, The Loon was frolicking again, arms and legs thrusting and punching as she surrendered to her own internal momentum. She created quite a contrast to everybody else at the party, who stood drinking their drinks and eating their eats and making small talk. I made an admiring comment to my friend that, quite appropriately, The Loon was celebrating her independence.
Then my friend told me she really was the wife of the drummer, the accomplished professional musician who had recorded with Buddy Miles and had the confident demeanor that people asire to. And here was this woman who looked exactly like an escaped lunatic, which people tend to avoid. The fact that they were husband and wife blew me away—but in that moment, it was my own surprise that surprised me the most.
I realized that celebrating freedom from the British stands pale in comparison to celebrating freedom from our own criticisms, judgments, and standards of normalcy. We think we are free, standing around a lovely backyard, enjoying our three-bean salad. But freedom is a matter of perception, and this evening reminded me that I was bound to an assumption of what is socially desirable. The truth, in fact, is that I wished I was dancing in the grass too. So I did.
We are as free as we set ourselves.
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