Every Fourth of July, the sky erupts. The air smells like sulfur and barbecue, and the streets are filled with people celebrating the fundamental idea of American liberty. I watch the fireworks like everyone else. I hear the anthems. But for me, the celebration is hollow. It is incredibly difficult to celebrate freedom when you are not free.
I am currently on supervised release. It is a legal status, but emotionally, it is purgatory. I am out of a cell, but I am not free. My life is governed by conditions, restrictions, and check-ins. I exist in a shadowland between incarceration and actual liberty, watching my fellow Americans celebrate a right I no longer possess.
The irony is entirely lost on the sky above me, but it is heavy on my chest. Somewhere in a box in my home, I have a chest full of medals. I earned them through bravery, sacrifice, and faithful service in the United States Navy. I wore the uniform and swore an oath to defend the freedoms that this country was built upon. Yet, on the Fourth of July, the paradox is suffocating: there is no Land of the Free in the home of this brave.
I am still proud to be an American. That doesn’t just wash away. But I feel that pride slipping, year by year, as I languish in this perpetual gray area. Supervised release feels like a sentence with no horizon. You do your time, you follow the rules, but the tether is always there, pulling tight just when you think you might be able to step forward.
I don’t know when it will ever truly end. On my darkest days, I look at the reality of this system and realize that true, unburdened freedom might not come until I am gone.
Perhaps the only time my record will be clean, and my slate truly wiped, is when I have my military funeral with full honors. I picture the folding of the flag. I picture it being handed to my widowed wife, and I can hear the crisp, solemn words of the officer kneeling before her:
“On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Navy, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service.”
Only then, when the brass plays taps and the flag changes hands, will the terms of my release finally expire. At least my corpse will be free.
Until then, I will sit through another Fourth of July. I will watch the red, white, and blue light up the night, remembering what I gave for this country, and wondering when this country will finally give me my life back.
Today: Pray for veterans who are incarcerated, whatever brought them there. Remember that at one time, they also served this country. By one official estimate, 107,400 veterans were serving time in state or federal prison in 2016. This Fourth of July week, may we remember them too.
