“My country ’tis of thee. Sweet land of liberty. Of thee I sing. Land where my fathers died. Land where their freedoms were denied. From every mountain side. Let freedom ring.”
We are celebrating 250 years as a nation this Independence Day and as a Black woman, I have mixed emotions about it.
The 4th of July has always been my favorite holiday. In our family, it was a big deal. We had the full cookout spread of ribs, brisket, burgers, chicken, hotdogs, and sausages accompanied by potato salad, deviled eggs, baked beans, pasta salad, mac’n’cheese, green beans, and more. The coolers overflowed with ice-cold pop and freezy pops for the kids, and Budweisers, Heinekens, and Coronas for the adults. The music blasted through the speakers, playlists shifting based on time of day and which generation had commandeered the sound system. My cousins and I roamed in and out of the house, whether the festivities were at grandma’s or an aunt’s, grabbing food, a new supply of firecrackers and bottle rockets, and avoiding every adult lest we be asked to run an errand and be derailed from the real task at hand – winning the annual firecracker war. The 4th was my holiday. It was reckless. It was joy. It was freedom. And it was Black as hell.
As I’ve gotten older, my understanding of the world and my place in it has shifted. I have seen that shift happen for many Black Americans in my generation. The recent elevation of Juneteenth to a federal holiday has heightened the tensions of our shared identity. The truth is, I have always celebrated Juneteenth. Kansas City hosted a Juneteenth festival every year. I grew up marching in the parade with my Girl Scout Council (shout out to the Mid-America Girl Scout Council!).
My formative education was in a Black Catholic school where Black history was the daily curriculum. My teachers were Black. My classmates were Black. Our curriculum was Black. I understood that life for us ain’t been no crystal stair, but I also knew the truth of our greatness, accomplishments, and powerful fight for liberation. I can’t ever remember being anything other than proud to be Black. And my Blackness has always been American.
To be an adult is to constantly confront the contradictions of life. I love the 4th of July. I am proud to be Black American. And I make daily demands that my country both acknowledge the depth of depravity that allowed the enslavement and barbaric treatment of Black people, and live up to its promise of liberty and justice for all. Both are true for me. I cannot separate the one from the other. I also refuse to allow someone else to define my relationship with America. Maga and that ilk don’t get to decide who is American and who belongs. My family has been here since the 1700s according to family and government records. We are American. As American as it gets. We have fought and died for our freedom and on behalf of this country long before Ellis Island beckoned the world to send its tired, poor, huddled masses yearning to breathe free. These 250 years of independence would not be possible without Black bodies. Black Americans. We are American.
I understand the movement away from acknowledging, let alone celebrating the 4th of July. I understand the vitriol Black Americans feel at the sight of the American flag. It’s hard not to recoil when the very image of the flag has been weaponized by racists, bigots, and deplorables against everyone who isn’t white and a worshipper of their white Jesus idol. I am Christian, and I am 100% positive we don’t worship the same God. Blond-haired, blue-eyed, chiseled-bodied, American Jesus is not real. Argue with your mama, not me.
As we prepare to celebrate 250 as a nation, I find myself thinking about how we begin to reclaim our country, this holiday, and our connection to the journey for freedom. No, Black people weren’t free in this country at the start. But we fought and demanded our freedom. As a result, all marginalized groups got to experience increased freedoms. I know it’s a painful story, and the amount of torture Black people have endured and continue to endure in this country is unforgivable. But I won’t be erasing the long, visible, verifiable contributions of Black people to the formation and sustaining of America. We built this shit.
One thing about me: I’m going to demand freedom for myself, my community, my people. Because the blood that flows through my veins pulses with the power of my ancestors who fought and died for generations so that I could be here. Independence Day is a declaration that we are coming for everything this nation owes us because we are free from the boxes they put us in, the chains they used to hold us down, and the limitations of their intellect that failed to comprehend our greatness and general unfuckwitableness. That’s their bad, not ours.
I don’t expect all Black Americans to share my sentiments. We don’t have to agree on everything or see eye to eye on how to achieve the end results we all desire. But I always expect us to show up and show out when called upon. And right now, it’s time for us to be the captains of this ship. While I plan to completely skip whatever self-aggrandizing foolishness that false prophet of a president stages on the Great Mall this week, I will be celebrating Independence Day.
Fire up the grill, pour the drinks, crank up the music, flood the dance floor, and break out the fireworks because it’s the 4th of July and I’m celebrating a legacy of not just surviving, but our insistence on creating new ways to thrive with joy at every stage of evolution in this messed up country of ours.
