A man may look back 50 years at an old birthday picture and lament lost innocence and youthful vigor. So can people look back a half-century on their land, wistfully observing what was and is no more. In America’s case, on its 250th birthday, some note that while we no longer call ourselves “these United States” but rather “this United States,” we are now more divided than ever.
In fact, even patriotism itself has taken on the flavor of an ideological position.
The contrast between the United States’ bicentennial in 1976 and its 250th anniversary this year reveals a stark difference. In 1976, America threw itself a birthday party unlike anything before or since. The Bicentennial was not just a commemoration of 200 years of independence — it was a coast-to-coast block party of red, white, and blue.
As Operation Sail brought a parade of tall ships into New York Harbor, the largest flag ever made was unfurled from the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge to greet them only to be shredded by the wind. Ninety minutes later, it had been a widescreen epic: a ribbon of red, white, and blue stitching Staten Island to Brooklyn in one long, heroic shot. It pulled the past into the present, greeting every ship that sailed into the world’s greatest city with a patriotic red carpet.
It was a moment so vivid it made you stop, breathe, and let the scene wash over you. Photographed from the Brooklyn side, this image captured the Bicentennial. That photo remained on display in my parents’ home for their entire lives — a quiet reminder that what endures most isn’t perfection, but something bold enough to try just like the American Republic it represents.
In 1976, families lined highways to watch wagon trains retrace colonial routes. Even amid a recession, Watergate’s aftermath, and the long shadow of the Cold War, Americans found a way to feel like one people celebrating one story.
Fast-forward to 2026, and the mood is unmistakably different. The nation observes rather than celebrates its 250th year not with a unified drumbeat but with a fractured soundtrack of competing narratives, grievances, and uncertainties.
I remember the Bicentennial fairly well. At age ten, everything suddenly was red, white, and blue. Commemorative quarters were issued bearing a Colonial drummer in 18th-century attire. Most significantly, the celebration was universal: if anyone wasn’t too enthusiastic about it, you didn’t know it; party poopers weren’t visible.
Yet schooling was different then. My elementary-school teachers, mostly older than the WWII generation, stuck to the three R’s. The Founders were never portrayed negatively; they were rightly heroized, and we children respected them. Though we weren’t politically savvy, we also (and I believe most of my classmates) knew enough to rightly fear communism. You would never hear anyone declaring himself a “socialist” — especially in the Bronx.
I’m not whitewashing the era. Nineteen-seventy-six was three years after the unconstitutional Roe v. Wade decision. Cultural and moral decay was evident even to a child (I saw graffiti and security gates covering storefronts at night). There was already some left-wing propaganda in school — a feminist, girl-power portrayal of Pocahontas and incorrect information about evolution came to mind. But we weren’t nearly as far down the rabbit hole.
Assimilation was still the norm. My mother joked that my 10th-birthday picture (it’s still around) “looks like the United Nations.” Present were a child of Spanish descent, one of Indian (from India) derivation, and a dark-complected Hispanic, among others. They all spoke typical American English — the only evident accent might be a NYC one — and embraced mainstream U.S. culture. The reason was simple: their “groups” existed in such small numbers that assimilation was as natural as breathing.
Patriotism once served as a common language. We had shared information sources: newspapers, magazines, news broadcasts, and seven TV stations. Today, cable/satellite channels and the internet offer options as numerous as the stars in the sky. Any particular bubble and confirmation-bias worldview can be found.
Yet there’s far more to it. We’re not merely “divided” — we’re balkanized in manifold ways: racially, ethnically, culturally, ideologically, religiously, and philosophically (and even sexually). Between 1976 and today, the differences have grown.
Many lament our disunity. The absence of a shared sense of purpose is a problem. People cannot be united when they disagree on what’s primary — such as faith, worldview, or moral foundation.
To analogize: A couple may disagree on how best to inculcate responsibility and masculine virtue in their son. Should they enroll him in scouting? Or have him spend time helping Grandpa on the farm, hunting, and working a paper route? This is not an irreconcilable difference that would likely end in divorce.
It’s far different if one parent wants the child to become a boy while the other believes he should “become a girl.”
We’ve heard about such cases — and they are the stuff of toxic custody disputes. This, of course, reflects the wider “transgender” debate in society.
In 1976, America was not like medieval times — an era G.K. Chesterton longed for when people agreed on what “really mattered.” But even then, America was far more united on fundamental issues than it is today.
Now we disagree on matters such as marriage, proper sexuality, and even “sex” itself. (Does the male-female binary carry the day, or is it a social construct?) If passionate disagreements over such can break up a marriage, what can they do to a country?
And regarding socialism: We now have actual communists in political office. When Americans were more traditional, they couldn’t unite with the Soviets overseas — so how can still-traditional Americans today unite with de facto Soviets within?