Tag: Fourth of July

  • Fireworks, Smoke, and the Light We Share on July 4th

    Fireworks, Smoke, and the Light We Share on July 4th

    I remember the Fourth of July first through the body.

    Not through history books.

    Not through speeches.

    Not through the careful language of founding documents.

    I remember it through smoke.

    Smoke rising from grills in backyards. Smoke drifting over alleyways. Smoke clinging to shirts and hair and folding itself into the memory of summer. I remember children running with sparklers, paper plates bending under ribs, baked beans, deviled eggs, and potato salad that everybody quietly judged but still ate.

    I remember laughter louder than the cheap fireworks we lit off in the alley.

    We did not talk much about the Declaration of Independence. We did not sit around quoting Jefferson. We talked about who cooked what. Who brought the good ice. Who made the punch too sweet. Who showed up with store-bought chicken and tried to pass it off like they had been standing over grease all morning.

    But we were celebrating something.

    Maybe not the country in the way textbooks wanted us to.

    Maybe not independence in its cleanest form.

    Maybe what we celebrated was presence.

    The gift of still being here.

    The gift of people gathered close enough to call your name across a yard.

    The gift of neighbors who knew your mother, your children, your business, and sometimes your middle name.

    As I grew older, the smoke stayed the same, but the fire changed.

    Sparklers became firecrackers. Firecrackers became bottle rockets. Bottle rockets became whole nights spent standing outside, daring the sky to answer us. Later, it became more organized. City festivals. Parades. Firework shows over rivers, stadiums, parks, and fairgrounds.

    You would drive somewhere with a blanket, a cooler, and just enough patience to sit in traffic afterward. Then the first burst would open above you, and for a moment, everybody stopped pretending to be separate.

    We all looked up.

    Together.

    That was always the part that mattered most to me.

    Not just the color.

    Not just the sound.

    But the shared looking.

    The brief agreement that something beautiful was happening above us, and we were willing to be quiet long enough to receive it.

    Now, I often watch the fireworks on television.

    I sit in the quiet of a home I work hard to keep. The sound comes through speakers. The colors fill the screen. There is no smoke in the room. No uncle yelling, “Don’t blow your fingers off.” No cousin running too close to the grill. No auntie guarding the good aluminum foil pans like national treasure.

    And some years, I have wondered what the Fourth of July is supposed to mean.

    I have wondered how to celebrate a nation that has so often complicated celebration.

    I have wondered how to hold joy in one hand and history in the other without dropping either one.

    Because for Black folks, America has always asked a strange thing of us.

    It has asked us to love a house we helped build while reminding us which rooms were never meant for us.

    It has asked us to sing while carrying memory.

    It has asked us to wave flags that did not always wave for us.

    And yet, somehow, we kept making room for joy.

    We made room around tables.

    We made room in church basements.

    We made room on porches, in parks, on folding chairs, beside grills, under trees, and in the middle of neighborhoods the world too often misunderstood.

    That is no small thing.

    To still find laughter, cook, dance, gather, and still look up.

    Kyle J. Hayes

    kylehayesblog.com

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  • “Fireworks, Smoke, and Silence: Reflections on the Fourth of July”

    “Fireworks, Smoke, and Silence: Reflections on the Fourth of July”

    I remember the Fourth of July not as a lesson in civics, but as smoke thick in the backyard, children running with sparklers and paper plates bending under ribs and deviled eggs. I remember laughter louder than the cheap boom of fireworks we lit off in the alley. We didn’t talk about the Declaration or Jefferson—we talked about who made which potato salad. About the music. About the person who brought store-bought chicken and tried to pass it off as homemade.

    We were celebrating something, though. Maybe not independence. But togetherness. Perhaps not the country. But the neighborhood. The people who showed up. The people who still knew your middle name.

    As I grew older, the smoke remained the same, but the fire changed. Firecrackers instead of sparklers. Bottle rockets fired off in the street like we were challenging the sky. Then it became more refined—city festivals, parades, sanctioned firework displays. You’d drive out to the river or a stadium or the edge of town and watch lights bloom over the landscape like temporary stars. And for a moment, we all looked up. Together. That was something.

    Now? Now I watch the fireworks on TV.

    I sit in the quiet of a home I pay for with work that doesn’t rest. I flip past news coverage, see red, white, and blue glossed over a nation that feels exhausted by its own reflection. The fireworks crackle through speakers. But there’s no smoke. No laughter. Just the echo of something I used to understand.

    Small Town America still gets it, in a way.

    There’s a rawness to how they celebrate. The Fourth feels like a living thing there—felt in parades with tractors draped in bunting, kids waving flags the size of dish towels. It’s in the grill smoke curling behind churches and VFWs. It’s in the fire department pulling double duty—hosing kids down for fun in the morning, standing ready for emergencies by nightfall.

    In these towns, the holiday doesn’t ask for an explanation. It just is. A ritual passed down like recipes and stories told on porches. Patriotism feels personal—tied to the land, the local, and the lineage.

    But drive two hours into the nearest city and it’s different.

    You feel the tension. The mix of celebration and scrutiny. Fireworks punctuate protests. Red, white, and blue merchandise is sold alongside T-shirts that read “No Justice, No Peace.” The holiday is no longer a question of tradition, but of interpretation. Who gets to feel free? Who was never meant to?

    Region matters, too.

    In the South, it’s often steeped in performative pride. The flags wave bigger, but the air feels heavier. History isn’t just remembered—it’s reenacted. For Black folks, it has always been a complicated celebration. Independence was declared in 1776, but our freedom didn’t come until almost a century later—and even then, it was on paper, not in practice.

    In the Northeast, there are more ceremonial historic towns holding colonial parades, bell ringings, and readings of old speeches. It’s a curated memory. A museum brought to life. Patriotic, yes, but distant.

    Out West, the holiday is looser, more abstract. Backyard cookouts in canyon shadows. Fireworks flaring over desert skies. The patriotism is quieter, more tied to the land and the idea of independence—something rugged, something wild.

    The Midwest—my home—straddles it all. Here, it’s a mix of deep-rooted ritual and growing skepticism. It’s the county fair and the protest. It’s the American flag hanging next to a Juneteenth banner. A place that still wants to believe in something, but is no longer sure what that something is.

    And that brings me to now.

    To this country.

    To this moment.

    Divided doesn’t feel like a strong enough word. We’re not just on different pages—we’re reading different books. For some, the Fourth is still sacred. For others, it’s hollow. Some wave flags with pride. Others burn them. Some pray for peace, others brace for chaos. Will we celebrate with barbecues or barricades this year? Will the fireworks light up the sky—or drown out the sirens?

    I’m no longer sure what the Fourth of July means anymore.

    I’m not sure if I ever truly did.

    But I know what I miss.

    The simplicity of smoke.

    The smell of burnt meat and the smoke of firecrackers.

    Family laughing. Adults yelling, ” Don’t blow your fingers off.” The way we all stopped for a moment to look up, not at a country, but at the light. Together.

    That’s what I try to hold on to now.

    Not the promise of America. But the possibility.

    Not the history. But the humanity.

    Because if there’s anything left to celebrate, it could be the small things. The gathered ones. The moments are too ordinary to lie about. The fireworks we make just by showing up.

    By Kyle Hayes

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