Declaration of independence

Ebony, July, 1995 by Laura B. Randolph

Everybody has their favorite holiday. There are people who love Christmas ("I get to put decorations up all over the house and spend an entire month shopping," says my friend Richette) and people who love Easter ("I don't have to put decorations up all over the house or spend an entire month shopping," says my friend Carol) and people who don't give a hoot what the country is celebrating as long as they get a day off from work - "a paid day off, my sister," stresses my friend Sharon - to celebrate it.

Me? The Fourth of July sets my rockets off. But not for any of the usual reasons: the spectacular fireworks displays, the parades, the all-you-can-eat barbecues/backyard crab feasts/pigs'-feet-and-potato-salad picnics in the park.

No, The Fourth lights my fireworks for less patriotic, more selfish reasons: because I am usually away on vacation some place far from the city; some place where you can see the ocean from your window; where it is 90 degrees in the shade; where men in Bermuda shorts say things like "Black women, they be the most beautiful creatures on earth, mon" when you walk by; where "Hot, Hot, Hot" is sung or played like a national anthem, and dressing for dinner means throwing a sarong on over your bikini.

And last, but by no means least, the Fourth of July makes me all sparkly because I am usually some place where the words "hurry" and "deadline" are considered vulgar expletives, offensive obscenities that are never - not ever - spoken in mixed company (mixed as in residents and renters). In other words, I go for the Fourth of July because of what it celebrates: Liberation. Independence. Freedom.

Of course, my definition of freedom is a lot more expansive than Thomas Jefferson's. Jefferson, of course, is the widely acclaimed author of the Declaration of Independence. I don't know, maybe it's me, but when Jefferson wrote "All men are created equal," by definition it sure doesn't seem like he had his wife in mind, let alone Sally Hemings, the beautiful Black slave (his slave) who is said to have borne six of his children.

So, you can see part of the reason why I'm not exactly on the same page as the rest of the country on this special day. Even Juneteenth, which comes closer - a lot closer - to the sentiment I want to honor on this midsummer holiday doesn't go quite far enough for me. Juneteenth, of course, is short for June 19th, "the Black folks' Fourth of July," as this day has come to be known in more than a few circles. It doesn't commemorate the day in 1776 when 50-some White men signed the Declaration of Independence while a handful of Black men served them tea. Juneteenth celebrates the day in 1865 when thousands of slaves in Texas were finally told of their freedom, the day they finally got the word about the Emancipation Proclamation - more than two years after Lincoln issued it.

That is why, wherever I am on the Fourth of July, I make it a point to take a quiet moment to reflect on just how much things have changed - and just how much they have stayed the same. You can get a pretty good idea about both if you just consider two things. 1) Juneteenth is now an official holiday in Texas. 2) "Confederate Heroes Day" is an official holiday in Texas. Talk about your exquisite ironies.

That is why July 4th and June 19th are fused in my psyche. Certainly, both dates give us the chance to celebrate how far we've come. But they should also remind us of just how far we have to go. It took 87 years from the Declaration of Independence to get to die Emancipation Proclamation. Eighty-seven years to get from "all men are created equal" to oh, well, okay, Black men, too. It might look like only a couple of weeks, but there are, in fact, nearly 90 years between June 19th and July 4th.

Change is exceedingly slow, if sure. So, rather than wait another 90 years for a historic document that will solemnize the rights of women, my sister-friends and I have decided to celebrate The Fourth by writing our own. Each summer, weeks before the day arrives, we gather around somebody's kitchen table and create a Declaration of Independence that celebrates us - black women old and young, living and dead, famous and unknown - in all our glory and grandeur and greatness.

This year's DOI looks like this.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all women are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are the tight to:

* life, liberty and the pursuit of the perfect hairdresser;

* say "no" without hesitation, guilt or fear of reprisal;

* follow a fantasy wherever it takes us (law school, Paris, the shoe department in Saks);

* control our own bodies;

* blow an entire check on the perfect little black dress;

* equal pay for equal work;

* change our minds for no other reason than because we want to;

* be seen as professional, smart and sexy all at the same time;

* denounce/criticize/censure any person who refers to any woman as a "bitch" or "ho" (remember the old Chinese proverb that says the beginning of wisdom is to call all things by their proper names);