Today, America celebrates 250 years of independence.
For me, this anniversary carries a different kind of weight.
I spent four years growing up outside Boston, in the small town of Winchester. Like countless schoolchildren, I walked the streets of Lexington and Concord. I climbed Bunker Hill. I visited Salem and Plymouth. I learned about the Revolution where it happened. We celebrated Colonial Day and dresseed in Colonial attire, made candles, learned about Pilgrim life, and felt the deepest sense of pride in our state’s role in the founding of our nation.
What I didn’t know, then, was that I wasn’t just learning American history.
I was walking through my own family’s history.
I wouldn’t discover that until years later.
Not long after Google became part of everyday life, a friend sent me the link and suggested I check it out to “see everything that’s every been posted online about me.” Curiosity got the better of me, and I searched not only my own name, but the names of my relatives. When Googling my grandfather’s name, I stumbled across a genealogy that couldn’t possibly be right.
Except…it was.
My father confirmed it, and confirmed stories of a Colonial British American heritage I never knew I had.
That’s when I learned that my ancestor, Philbrook Colby, answered the alarm of 19 April, 1775, and fought in the first battle of the American Revolutionary War – which is surreal, as I grew up knowing the story of Paul Revere’s ride, but never knew someone in my family was on the receiving end of that battle cry. Another, Aaron Bristol, fought at Bunker Hill. My family also descends from Patriot families including the Hoyts and Farrs.
Those discoveries didn’t make me feel more important.
They made history feel personal.
I often wonder what those men believed they were fighting for. They couldn’t have imagined the America we know today. They couldn’t have imagined the technology, the opportunities, or that one of their descendants – a woman, no less – would one day own a business and have the privilege of sharing her thoughts with people around the world from a device she carries in her pocket.
Liberty isn’t static.
Every generation expands what freedom looks like.
When my son, Aiden, began studying the Revolutionary War in middle school, I knew I wanted him to experience it differently than I had.
So we went.
We stood in Lexington and Concord.
We climbed Bunker Hill.
We walked the Freedom Trail in Boston.
We visited Salem (we are descended from the only witch who laughed at the judge and called the trials a joke – Susannah North Martin) and we walked Plymouth Plantation.
Not because I wanted him to memorize dates for a test, but because I wanted him to understand that history happened in real places, to real people – and I wanted him to experience it in real life while knowing there was a personal connection to that history in a way I never did.
This photograph was taken beneath Paul Revere’s statue.
Last year, Aiden wrote about standing there and imagining what his ancestors might have been feeling on the night of Revere’s ride, knowing they were preparing to stand against the most powerful military force in the world. His essay was a winner in the VFW Patriots’ Pen competition.
The award made me proud – it’s hanging in our living room.
But what mattered even more was this:
A story that was almost lost to history is now being passed to another generation.
As America celebrates 250 years, I’m grateful – not only for those who helped begin this nation’s story, but for the opportunity to rediscover my family’s small place within it, and to make sure those stories continue.
Because history doesn’t preserve itself.
It survives because someone chooses to tell it.
Happy 250th Birthday, America. 🇺🇸
