Liberty

So tomorrow (well, technically, today) is the Fourth of July, more formally known as Independence Day. And in honor of our nation's independence, I've planned to immerse myself in the highly patriotic pursuit of looking at pretty clothes. No, really — I will be celebrating my love of country by visiting the Metropolitan Museum Of Art and the Brooklyn Museum to view, respectively, their exhibits American Woman: Fashioning a National Identity and American High Style: Fashioning a National Collection.

It honestly doesn't get more patriotic than that for me.

I've stated proudly before that when the issue of citizenship is in question, I am a New Yorker first, an American second. I've also stated before how profoundly lucky I feel to be surrounded by such a wealth of culture and opportunity, to live in a place where world-famous sites and events are so easily accessible that I only need a bus pass to get to them. By wonderful chance, I get to experience some of the best that not only this city, but this country, even the world, has to offer. And I am thankful my country allows me the freedom to do so.

Museums are one of my favorite ways to take advantage of this abundance. To put it simply, I like pretty things. I can stand in front of a painting staring at the subtle gradations of color and individual brushstrokes for hours. I will marvel at the delicacy and detail evoked through something as seemingly unyielding as metal, wood, or stone. I am fascinated by exotic myths and icons. And it amazes me how some of these things have been handed down and saved through history: I am physically looking at time.

I'm particularly fond of social history — the stories of individuals and everyday life. When I saw the Titanic exhibit some months ago, we were given "boarding passes" at the entrance, each with the name of an actual passenger who had been on the ship. Each contained a brief history — where the person was coming from, where they were going and why, who they were travelling with, which class they were in. My passenger's name was Ellen, and she was travelling second class with her mother and aunt, on her way to America to be married. It put the exhibit on a whole new level. The artifacts specific to the second class were now of particular personal interest: "I" had eaten from this china; this was what "my" bed had looked like. It was exciting, but also distressing, due to the fact that at the end of the tour, lists were posted that named the passengers who had survived and those who had died. I was actually nervous as I approached the lists, and genuinely relieved to discover that not only I, but — amazingly — my whole party had made it. Miss Ellen would become a bride after all.

And speaking of brides, I am also a fiend for fashion — color, texture, pattern, design; elaborate period pieces and theatrical costumes; traditional dress of different cultures and avant-garde ensembles never meant to be worn, only to be seen as living art [see "pretty things" above]. And what could be more American than these simultaneous displays of American fashion? The Met exhibit in particular provided an eye-opening history lesson. Focusing more on what's now considered the "ready-to-wear" side of fashion, it was split into several sections by era: "The Gibson Girl," "The Bohemian," "The Suffragist," and "The Flapper," to name a few. Besides different styles, these categories each represented a type of emancipation for the women of the age: physical, intellectual, political, economical, sexual. These clothes weren't just pretty, they were functional for their era: skirts that allowed women to ride bicycles and horses in the traditional style rather than sidesaddle; Grecian and Oriental-inspired silhouettes that displayed worldliness and artistic appreciation; practical military uniforms incorporating elements from those of the men; a sartorial counterpart to the societal loosening of restraint. This wasn't just about changing hemlines — these represented stages in the progression of American women's freedom, a historically significant part of our country's heritage.

As an American woman, I find this connection meaningful, and as a self-identified, dyed-in-the-wool feminist, the idea of independence itself is especially meaningful. It's an issue I've struggled with, and still do, to an extent. My autonomy is important to me, but it's been a battle to balance my sense of self against society's expectations. I don't consider myself especially patriotic, in the fireworks and flag-waving sort of way, but I will always be grateful to live in a country where I have that choice not to be so, and the right to voice those beliefs.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go watch James Cameron's thinly-veiled anti-American propaganda piece, Avatar.