Quincy, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston, is a prole city, a place for the working class.  It has been so since the collapse and shuttering of the factories after World War II.  It is fairly prosperous for a prole city.  One mark of the proletariat is a desire for status and success, and the homes are tidy, and the town is safe to visit day and night.
The new Lords of McBoston, of course, race down the highway to the select places by Cape Cod; there is nothing for them in a place like Quincy, especially history.  That is a comfort to the lesser people.  The Lords of McBoston, like London and Paris and Rome and New York and Washington, don’t have much to say for the history of a place.  It is mostly a story of the tediously unimportant, the currently un-influential, the flag wavers, the veterans, the invisible world of the 99% which is only comfortable at a distance.  The ten-million-dollar homes are not there, but tucked away in more cloistered places where the year-round residents know their indenture to keep up the properties of the rich for the brief glorious summer that is New England – and to steer the unwashed away.
There is no mistaking Quincy.  It has always had some degree of pride in early New England, a hopeless ideology of the unwashed.  It gives them a comforting spectacle of what America is not.
These are the Leavers, the Trumpers, the Brexiters, and they should be reminded that there are probably not a dozen Harvard graduates in Quincy or Milton or Braintree.  They are the permanent proles.  Unfortunately, these ones are educated well enough to see the crack between the Story and Reality.
Boston is a soulless outpost of Finance and Business; Manufacture had long ago fled the city, only kept alive by a brief pulse of money after WWII.  Boston is Harvard and MIT and biotech investment and finance, of international comity and communication in the pulse of Money that makes Money.  The Quincy people are there to handle the menial jobs, and those that are not working today at the convenience store or the Dunkin’ Donuts or the Wal-Mart will go to the beach and muse in the emptiness of the shore, what ineffable thing that has gone and is no more.
The paradox is that the Commoners are all the same – they are impeccably Local.  It is nonstandard, and quite frustrating to those who direct their lives.  Would that they stayed more invisible, intangible, appearing only by their transactions on credit cards and nothing more.
Quincy is revanchist, blue-collar, proletarian, and irritating.  They know the words to the sublime American embarrassment that stirs up the Invisible – <i>”whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.”</i>
If the regal Lord Adamses didn’t teach them, the last Civil War should have – we have attained the Paradise of the Working Class, so stop with the revolutionary nonsense.  It is forbidden.  You could be imprisoned, during the First Adams Administration, for criticizing the Government.  The revolution has succeeded, and we need none other.
That is Quincy.  They will mill about, eat their hot dogs, watch the fireworks, celebrate the eternal paradise of the present with some nostalgic half-memories of what might have been, what nearly was.
Happy Fourth, guys!

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