When America celebrated its 250th birthday this weekend, I expected to feel the same exhilaration I experienced during the Bicentennial in 1976.
Instead, I felt something else.
Fifty years ago, I was a law student in Boston. I stood on the Esplanade with my mother listening to Arthur Fiedler conduct the Boston Pops as fireworks illuminated the Charles River. Like millions of Americans, I believed I was witnessing a once-in-a-lifetime celebration of our nation.
