The Fourth of July: A Day We Made Our Own

The Fourth of July, to me, is about everything that America has given me—and everything she still withholds. It is about all that this country stands for: possibility, promise, perseverance. But it is also a day when I pause to remember my forefathers—not the ones in powdered wigs, but the ones whose backs bore the weight of the American dream before they were ever invited to dream it.

When I was a little boy, we spent every Fourth of July in the country—in Tucker, Arkansas or Lockesburg, Arkansas. My mother’s family roots are in Tucker, and my father’s family homestead is in Lockesburg. It didn’t matter the place—the experience was the same. It was more than a holiday; it was homecoming. Black families from across the country—Chicago, Kansas City, Detroit—would travel back to rural Arkansas for family reunions. I remember the warm joy that filled the air—the kind of joy that wrapped itself around you like a favorite quilt. I can still see the elders hugging and embracing each other, settling into folding chairs beneath the shade trees, laughing, telling stories, catching up on life and reminiscing about the old days. It was a time of laughter, storytelling, cousins running around in their new shoes in red dirt, and elders who kept us grounded in love and legacy.

We didn’t have fancy things, but we had tradition. Whether it was making homemade ice cream—taking turns churning it by hand, no electric machine, just muscle, patience, and anticipation—or frying fish over an open fire on an antique cooking pit passed down through generations, these were rituals that meant something. We’d get new outfits from Kmart. There was barbecue on the grill, kids splashing in backyard pools, and when the sun went down, we’d light fireworks under skies so dark and full of stars, they looked like heaven’s front porch.

Looking back, I now understand how sacred those gatherings were. At that time, this country wasn’t acknowledging our celebration of Juneteenth. So in our own quiet way, we gave the Fourth of July meaning that belonged to us. We reclaimed it—not as a celebration of freedom fully won, but of family, of faith, of survival. We made the holiday ours.

And still today, I think about the people who remain in the background of America’s story. The ones who pick the fruit we eat. The ones who change the sheets in our hotels. The ones who build the roads, clean the schools, and hold up this nation’s economy with invisible hands. These are the people who make America work—yet are rarely invited to claim her promise, but still, somehow, find a way to maintain their dignity.

So what is the Fourth of July to them?

It is a mirror and a challenge. A reminder that freedom is not a possession but a pursuit. That America is not a destination but a journey. One we are still on—still becoming. But becoming what? And for whom?

What we see in this country today—division, cruelty, a disregard for truth and equity—is disheartening. It strikes at the root of what this nation ought to mean. But I still believe. Not in the myth of America, but in the people who have always insisted she live up to her highest ideals.

To be American is to hold gratitude and grief in the same hand. It is to remember the ones who planted crops by hand and held dreams in their hearts. The ones who built family reunions into rituals of resistance. Those who never stopped believing that their labor, love, and lives mattered.

I hope my children one day see the stars in a sky that doesn't compete with city lights, and know that even in a country that didn't always see us, we saw one another. And that is its own kind of freedom.

Happy Fourth of July.

Inspired by Frederick Douglass’s 1852 speech, “What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?”, this reflection was written in the spirit of both remembrance and reclamation. With deep respect for Douglass’s enduring moral clarity, I offer this 2025 version as a personal meditation on memory, dignity, and the ongoing journey toward American freedom.