Only 15 miles separated Weymouth, MA, from Boston, but very often it felt as if the small village was a world away. Where Boston was a large and bustling seaport, the jewel of the Massachusetts colony, Weymouth, officially founded in 1622, remained rural and agricultural. Residents held fast to the traditions of New England, including town meetings and strong community ties.

Still, 15 miles was 15 miles and in the late night of March 5, 1770, a courier from Boston arrived in the town, on horseback, in just hours. The air was cold and a crust of  icy snow covered the ground. News of the courier’s arrival traveled quickly and townspeople gathered in the town square, their vapored exhales visible, stamping their feet for warmth as their hands reached for a copy of the broadsheets the courier brought with him. Everyone was eager to learn why the horse rider had pushed his steed so hard and fast.

There had been a massacre in Boston the night before. British soldiers fired into a crowd, killing five Boston residents and injuring six others. There were gasps of horror among the folks in Weymouth… and also grimaces of rage. This was too much, especially in a colony already struggling under the weight of British rule. From the British occupation of Boston to taxation without representation, the Crown was pushing the colonists into action.

Among the people in the square was a large contingent of the Loud family, including the patriarch, Francis, my 7x-great-grandfather. He was a few months shy of 70. Near him were his six sons, including William Brewster Loud, my 6x-great-grandfather, named after his own 3x-great-grandfather, Elder William Brewster of the Mayflower.

The remainder of the group was made up of Francis’ grandsons, including eight-year-old David Loud, my 5x-great-grandfather. He stood very close to his father, William B. Loud.

This was the world my ancestors knew, a world in which lines had been drawn, in which ordinary people took a stand, in which life felt very much untethered as King George III continued to behave, as stated in the Declaration of Independence, as “a prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant” and who “is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.”

Then, on April 19, 1775, another courier, part of a network of riders, like Paul Revere, whose job it was to alert the towns and villages outside of Boston and other major cities, raced into Weymouth. The rider carried news that colonists and British soldiers had exchanged musket fire at the Battle of Lexington and Concord, about 20 miles away from Weymouth.

The American Revolution had begun.

Weymouth, like other places in the colonies, responded strongly – no surprise, since this was the town in which Abigail Adams, a future First Lady, had been born and raised. Like so many other colonists, the Louds responded.

Jacob Loud, William B. Loud’s oldest brother, along with his five sons, enlisted, becoming the only family on record to have a father and five sons all fight in the Revolution. One of Jacob’s sons, Peleg, died in battle at Fort Ticonderoga, on August 18, 1776, at age 24.

Similarly, William B. Loud, now 37, also enlisted, serving in the regiment that helped secure a key location, Dorchester Heights, which overlooked Boston and its harbor from the south and east. The move forced the British to evacuate the city, ending the siege of Boston. At some point during this chaotic time, though, William B. Loud was taken as a prisoner and confined to a British prison ship, where conditions were far from ideal.

My thoughts, though, inevitably, wandered to his son, David Loud, my 5x-great-grandfather. Just 15-years-old, David felt so strongly about the colonists’ cause that he lied about his age in order to enlist. For the next six years, he served in the Continental Army and then re-enlisted when he was 51 to serve in the War of 1812.

After George Washington’s victory, the Louds returned to their lives and their work as housewrights in Weymouth and in other towns in Massachusetts. With each generation, the Louds expanded and moved outward, to places like New York, Pennsylvania, Kentucky, and points even further west. It’s a family history captured in the genealogy 300 Years of Louds in America, and it unfolds much like the plot in John Jakes’ Bicentennial series of novels.

I’m reflecting on my heritage as I prepare my protest sign for the upcoming No Kings Day, an event/organization that our current Administration has deemed as “I Hate America” terrorist threat. That’s yet another lie… but if that’s what empathy and a belief in American ideals make me, then so be it. I come from a long line of revolutionaries (and immigrants) who fought and died for independence, and as long as I have my freedom of speech, I will continue to use it.

Very often, a pundit or political leader or friend reminds me that we have far more in common with one another, that we can’t let this plague of polarization break us. Honestly, I struggle with this. I understand the sentiment, but I have great difficulty in meeting halfway someone whose beliefs are so far right or are so far away that they’re on another planet.

To start, I do not believe in the cult of patriotism, the near-religious dogma that one’s patriotism is determined by the size of their American flag or how many American flag pins can fit onto their lapel or how many ways they can creatively wear an American flag. None of that makes that American more proud than any other American.

So, I’m going back to basics, looking at that most patriotic of American holidays, July 4. I have yet to meet anyone – legal or illegal – who has not celebrated the day with red, white, and blue fervor. From cheering at fireworks to clapping along to John Philip Sousa marches, from enjoying a backyard barbecue to participating in a parade… for a single day, we are truly e pluribus unum, out of many, one.

We’re not a perfect country – often, far from it. Although it feels as if we’ve lost our way a bit or even a lot, we, like the colonists, are at a point when all of us must take a stand. We can no longer wait for someone else to take care of things, to wait for someone to mend this uncomfortably ill-fitting sweater that feels as if it’s twisting around our limbs and torso, strangling us. We are the ones who have to restitch this thing as if we’re Betsy Ross.

We may not know everything, but we certainly know freedom and self-evident truths – and we know that what is happening today is none of these things.

With that in mind, it’s my opinion that we all believe, with every fiber in our American core, in the idea of America, in the colonial lore of a ragtag army beating a global oppressor. That means that with every lie, every act of aggression, every threat, every prosecution of political critics, every example of authoritarian overreach coming from this Administration, we, regardless of political party, know that what we are witnessing is not normal. It’s not Presidential. It’s not American. It’s tyranny and we must recognize it as such and we must call it out.

Now, more than ever, it’s important for us to remember our Founding Fathers, who, as imperfect as they may have been, thought wisely to enshrine certain words and ideas in our Declaration of Independence, so that we may recognize that our own oligarchical prince is one “whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant” and “is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.”

If you are participating in No Kings Day, remember to be peaceful, respectful, and safe.