A Tale of Two Fourths


As a kid, I used to look up into an inky sky and watch fireworks explode over my neighborhood. This was the 70s. There were no town-funded displays, it was the family down the block whose Dad knew a guy who knew a guy. The backyards weren’t yet fenced off and  the street was one, giant yard; kids cannon-balling into pools and adults cannon-balling into coolers full of Miller Lite. There were hot dog chunks marinating in a gooey sauce and fruit salad in hollowed out watermelons, the tops decorated like an American flag.

Miraculously, no-one drowned while the adults were busy drowning in Budweiser, blue cigarette smoke circling their heads like halos. No one blew off a finger tip or got third degree burns or accidentally torched a house or slipped inside for a cop and a feel with someone else’s wife. At least if they did, I never heard about it.

I didn’t even know what we were celebrating, not really. There had been pilgrims and a war and Betsey Ross sewed a flag. The pool water was slick and cool on my skin, the sting of chlorine sharp in my nostrils. Watermelon juice dripped down my chin. Dusk came down and someone else’s mother would come along and choke you in a cloud of OFF until you could taste the fug of it on your tongue like a fur. 

There were good people in that neighborhood. Hard working. Vans in driveways and fathers that got up early to go into shops and mothers that macraméd twisty twirly pigtail holders for the Christmas PTA sale. The rich family at the end of the street had a heated pool. The kids all  knew they were rich because they handed out full size candy bars on Halloween. When you’re nine or ten, those are the things that counted.

I thought that’s what every neighborhood in the US was like. I didn’t know any better. 


Two decades later my husband and I drove down Myrtle Avenue in Brooklyn, looking for an address. There were new apartments for sale, in our price range, which was stupid expensive then and obscenely expensive now. The building, deep brown brick with brand new Windex shine windows, was on its own on an otherwise barren city block, the kind of abandoned stretch with sun-parched weeds twisting through the buckled concrete. Two or three blocks away were the unmistakable silhouettes of housing project towers that dot the Brooklyn skyline like Soviet-dressed sentinels. We did math in our head while we circled the block in our crappy car; mortgage rates and commuting times, maintenance costs. As we rounded a corner, a sudden phalanx of police cars, lights flashing, sirens wailing like the furies, screamed down the street.

It was the middle of a sweltering New York City 4th, when the city stinks of spoiled milk and rotting garbage. I don’t care where you live, NYC reeks in the summer. It was blazing sunlight afternoon, not yet dusk, not even dark enough to watch a sparkler spritz and pop in the air before it fizzed out. Two, three, four, police cars screeched to a halt sideways and perpendicular, blocking off the street. Doors flew open and cops jumped out, storming up a nearby stoop. Lights flashed, radios crackled.

We drove quietly in the other direction.

It’s taken me a long time to confront my own racism about that day, my reaction, my assumptions, the nifty little racist trick of finding excuse after excuse to forget about that (relatively) affordable apartment.

It never occurred to me that the folks who lived on that street were just having a street party– the same way we used to when I was a kid. Relaxing in the sun on a day off, drinking a beer. Taking a moment to breath in between working their asses off–just like the folks in the white neighborhood I grew up in. They didn’t have one long summer lawn slash of green to run through, but they had stoops connected by sidewalk pavement. Their kids were cooling off in the spray of fire hydrants instead of doing cannon balls because there is no damn pool. And maybe there weren’t hot dogs in gooey, sauce, but I bet there was watermelon because you can’t have a 4th of July without watermelon.

What if there was a girl, popsicle juice dripping down her chin, sitting on a stoop and thinking this is what every neighborhood I know is like. She didn’t get fireworks, she got flashing blue lights and sirens; not even in the dark where if she squinted, maybe they could kind of/sort of look pretty.

No one ever called the cops on our neighborhood parties, even though there were fireworks that no one was supposed to have going off in the night sky. Even though there were at least a dozen other things the folks in my white, working class neighborhood were given the benefit of the doubt about.

There’s a kid who grew into adulthood with a memory of the 4th of July not being cannonballs in pools and rocket pops, but guns drawn and flashing lights and cops storming a stoop.

That’s their version of the United States.

It’s totally different from mine. But…here’s the kicker. My story? It’s pretty. It’s nostalgic and it makes you feel good.

But it’s not right, or better. Those two countries are the same damn country.

My story is not more American than anyone else’s. It’s just one story in a land of 365 million stories. A time, a place, a memory. 

But my story sounds better, doesn’t it? Wholesome and patriotic. Kids running and laughing up into the night sky as bottle rockets exploded in the dark. Still tasting the fug of that OFF on their tongue. Drunk adults hiccuping softly in the night. Like they earned the right somehow to own the story. 

That sure sounds a lot better than the police coming and shutting down your street party, doesn’t it?

So guess whose story you hear? Guess whose story is the one that gets told? 

Don’t let anyone tell you, today, of all days, that America is any ONE thing. It is beautiful for spacious skies and it is dark and ugly and grim. And those polar opposites? They are not always what or where you think they are. It is coastal cities and rural corn fields. It is the good, it is the bad, and oh my God, it is the ugly. It is the kid born in Kentucky as much as it is the immigrant from Bangladesh who just became swore an oath to a country he believes in but might not believe in him back. It is taxi drivers and tractor drivers. It’s a girl growing up in a white, working class neighborhood and it’s another girl growing up in a black, Brooklyn one.

And every one of us has a story. 

You want to truly make America great?

Start paying attention to the stories that are the most unlike yours. 


14 Comments Add yours

  1. Reblogging to sister site “Timeless Wisdoms”

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Anonymous says:

    Love your writing….so true.


    1. Dina Honour says:

      Thank you very much.


  3. Val says:

    America reflecting the world, by the sound of it. Good piece of writing – from the heart.


    1. Dina Honour says:

      The easiest ones to write often come directly from there, and this one did. Thank you.

      Liked by 1 person

  4. Wow–that was great. Great to read, great to think about. Because it’s so true.


    1. Dina Honour says:

      Thank you very much!

      Liked by 1 person

  5. Not American but the esssence holds true. Well done.


    1. Dina Honour says:

      Thank you, and yes, I think (I hope) there is some universal truism in there for everyone.


  6. Donnalee says:

    I agree–thank you for the nice article.

    As a small-world cultural aside, we used to call it ‘copping a feel’. Did ‘you guys’ also call it that, or was it ‘a cop and a feel’ in your world? And did you call everyone ‘you guys’ in school, and it had nothing to do with gender? We did, and that usage still prevails here near Woodstock NY, but some of the older transgendered folks I know, like over the age of 70 maybe, seem to take ‘hi you guys’ as some intentional anti-trans slur, since the people are male-to-female transgendered folks and do not want to be ‘guys’ as they see it. I keep forgetting to warn my best friend that it is taken poorly in this context–oh well. Next time–it’s hard to get everything right, so I think good intentions and willingness to listen and learn help a lot.


    1. Dina Honour says:

      I think I would normally say ‘cop a feel’, but reworded it out of poetic license ;-). And yes, still guilty of saying “you guys” as a catch all, though I try to be more aware of it, the way I try to be aware of saying “women” and not “girls”. Shifts in language take time. Not as long as we may think, but they’re not immediate. I was just using “Ms.” as an example of this. Nowadays we don’t think twice about seeing it or using it, but it was a radical departure when it first came on the scene–not all that long ago, linguistically speaking!

      Liked by 1 person

      1. Donnalee says:

        I remember the advent of ‘Ms.’ and how contentious it was for a very long time. A lot of my friends and clients are old-fashioned multiple personality folks/have DID, and I use the term ‘them’ for them and do not use the clumpy ‘them’ that others use now instead of ‘he’, ‘she, ‘it’; if I say “They’re so nice” about a person, I mean they’re multiple, not that I am being vague about the gender or number of the person somehow. I enjoyed the grammar and language of the past and still use it even a bit online, but it has been impacted very greatly by the internet and other things. Good luck to all of us!

        Liked by 1 person

      2. Donnalee says:

        I was unsure if ‘cop and a feel’ may have been similar to ‘intents and purposes’ versus ‘intensive purposes’, which I have head somewhere–


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