I stood outside of one stadium, waiting to get into another, fortunate to be standing in a part of the line where the surprising March sun kept me warm. Alongside the queue, activists and agitators passed by, each promoting their own agenda, or, in a few cases, simply their wares.
When I was a kid, my family had a tradition of gathering at my grandparents’ house in Memphis for the Fourth of July every year. For a while, we were coming in from all over: My mom’s older sister and her kids were in Florida, we were in New Jersey, my mom’s younger sister was in Memphis, and my uncle was outside of Houston.
One year, my mom ditched us there.