Because I am who I am, I’ve rarely experienced a Fourth of July that couldn’t be described as privileged. Or, using another word, American.
Barbecues and picnics. White creased pants and wide-brimmed hats. Fresh corn and watermelon and pancake breakfasts where the fire station comes out to man the slip-and-slide. Those are pretty idyllic experiences that are, in essence, very American.
Of course the best memories revolve around camping chairs in the street watching the kids play with sparklers and the pyro-crazed bigger kids (i.e. men) play with rocket launchers, or whatever the really dangerous firecrackers are called.