I never celebrate the Fourth of July. At home in Puerto Rico, I get to choose: join the few people who celebrate the holiday, or go about my day like any other. I’ve always been tempted to watch fireworks and eat hot dogs, but celebrating the day always felt disrespectful to my ancestors. (After all, Spain and then the U.S. turned my island into their territories.)
When I heard cherubs would be covering Evanston’s parade and saw the excitement on my peers’ faces, I was annoyed. What could possibly be so special about this Independence Day? Fireworks? I see them on New Year’s Eve. The food? Nothing my mom’s arroz con habichuelas y chuleta couldn’t beat. The colors? I have about 20 red, white and blue flags in my house – Puerto Rican ones.
As I walked along Evanston’s Central Street and saw hundreds of families lining the route, I realized it wasn’t the grilling hamburgers or loud, colorful explosions that made July Fourth so special. It was the community.
Still, something felt missing. I scanned the crowd, searching for something familiar. Then, I heard Spanish. My neck twisted so fast it cracked. The Mexican-American float, decked out in green, red and white flags, was passing me, and people on and off it were laughing like they belonged. Even while honoring their Latino roots, they celebrated America. If they could, why couldn’t I?
I was supposed to be looking for great paradegoers to interview. Mission accomplished. But more importantly, I found a sense of belonging. Nothing made me feel more at home than seeing so many different people come together to celebrate their country.
