Today, Americans are celebrating our independence. It’s a day full of cookouts and fireworks and enjoying the sun. It’s also a great day for a writing prompt!
In a previous post, Jeff wrote about the many forms of independence. Today, let’s take a look at celebration.
Fourth of July Writing Prompts
Here are your prompts:
- What does the Fourth of July mean to you? Write about a memorable Fourth of July you’ve experienced.
- What does the character in your work in progress celebrate? Write a scene about them celebrating their favorite holiday or occasion.
- An overenthusiastic amateur pyrotechnician organizes an elaborate fireworks display—but something goes terribly wrong. What happens next?
What makes the Fourth of July special to you? Let us know in the comments.
PRACTICE
Choose one of the writing prompts above. Then, take fifteen minutes to tell your story. When you’re done, share your practice in the practice box below and be sure to leave feedback for your fellow writers!
Here is part of a post I wrote concerning attending a July 4th celebration:
The July 4th program on the stage began and we were treated to all kinds of music – two selections I remember hearing was an operatic-type solo, ‘Tis a Gift to be Simple, and then a tune from the Beach Boys.
Directly in front of us on a blanket was a little Latino family of a man, woman and toddler. I got such a kick out of watching them. The woman and the toddler stood up and danced to every. Single. Song. If the tune was slow, they marched; or, if it was peppy, they held hands and two-stepped. If the tune was patriotic, they saluted as they marched in time. The man sat on the blanket and nodded and smiled at the toddler but even he stood up with them when Lee Greenwood’s “I’m Proud to Be an American,” blared over the speaker.
I know I’m an old softie, but tears stood in my eyes watching this little family enjoy the celebration.
This is what America is all about – the freedom to …
Gather together. Everyone who wanted to come, could.
Dance. It didn’t seem to matter to the little family who was watching. They were filled with joy – who cares who saw them having fun?
Join. I don’t know if this family was here legally or not. (Let’s pretend they were legal.) No matter where you were born, if you want to become an American badly enough, you can. I do believe in the process. It can be a long arduous journey to become a citizen. I have Swedish friends who became Americans after 15 long years of going through miles of red tape costing them plenty of dollars. What a proud day for them when citizenship was granted!
Come and go where you want. Although I live in the mid-west, I’m free to travel to Florida or anywhere I would like in this beautiful diverse land. I don’t have to be checked at every state border crossing.
Worship. I can pray wherever and however I see fit. As an American, I am free to stand during our anthem and show respect by putting my hand over my heart. You are free to not do the same, if you so choose.
Speak your mind. I may not agree with you, but I will defend your right to say what’s on your heart. I hope you will grant me that same privilege.
Write what burns inside. We do not have our writings censored. I am free to write about what I see and feel. If it offends you, you are free to not read it.
Clearwater Beach ended up being the best place ever to spend our Independence Day celebration. The fireworks program was one of the best I’ve ever seen; but, even more memorable, I saw a portrait of an American family I will never forget.
https://jerralea.blogspot.com/2017/07/portrait-of-american-family.html
What a beautiful celebration of what it means to be an American! Thank you for sharing, Jerri!
Thanks, Alice!
Loved this essay, Jerri, the active picture you shared and the thoughts & emotions it brought to your mind. I would suggest only that you change the word “pretend” to “assume,” because if we need to “pretend” that family came here legally, it sounds as if we are assuming they didn’t.
Thank you, Sheila B! I had not considered how “pretend” came across. Thanks again for your input!
I would like to approach this Holiday celebration from a negative view. Not my negative view, but so many that haven’t a clue why we celebrate this holiday.
I’m really irritated about something that I want to share with you. Everyday I drive past a home that has had their flag at half-mast for at least a year. They have never moved it. And on top of that the flag has an raggedy torn end to boot. It’s not only disrespectful to our country but to all who have to look at that flag everyday!
If you live in this country and share the freedoms we enjoy everyday of our lives you should show it and live it. It makes me feel like burning that flag. Normally I would never condone such action but I just am so irritated about this. I’m sorry if I don’t fit into your topic the way you suggested.
Perhaps your half-masters are native Americans. Here in Australia our first nation people feel invaded:: they refuse to celebrate Australia Day, they feel it was Invasion Day. Native Americans could feel similarly. Just a thought. Helenclayworker
I don’t think that sinario (spelling) would fit this situation as the people that live there do not fit that from what I’ve seen of them as I’ve driven by.
Thank you for sharing so honestly, Larry. That house must be hard to drive past every day. I wonder why their flag is at half-mast—it sounds like there’s a story there.
i like how you so poignantly expressed how the ragged flag at halfmast disturbs you. Burning flags is the way that they are supposed to be disposed of. I am curious about what has brought the flag owners to display their flag is such a manner. It may have nothing to do with careless disregard or disrespect or it may have everything to do with it. Maybe someone they loved lost their life in a foreign war, maybe they are just thoughtless. I dare you to extend to them, to find out and the write about your discovery.
I must say that I’m a coward at heart but I’ll think about it. Parking is another problem to be able to just pull off the busy street and park, we will see. Thanks for the comment.
On July Fourth at Snyder’s Lake, we would sit in our folding chairs in front of the trailer to watch the big kids and their dads shoot off illegal Roman candles, sparkling fountains and whatever other supernova pyrotechnics they acquired on the black market. Or from Uncle Murray in Myrtle Beach.
I’d look at the faces of my brothers and sister as they canted skyward and glowed with the white, red, yellow, blue of whatever ball of Ooh-and-Ahh had just burst above us. Maybe two seconds later, the concussion of the birth and death of that fireball would reach us and we’d blink, a shadow blink of the one from the initial blinding spray of stars.
We all had our sparklers going, writing our names in the dark air with the twinkling wire torches of magnesium powder and other chemicals no one cared to know. We just wanted to hold onto the fire, if only for a minute, to be young American demigods who stole the illicit joy the authorities forbade us.
Afterwards, if you stepped barefoot on one of the sizzling leftover wires tossed in the grass, well, that was the price you paid for playing Prometheus.
I love this, Joe! It captures the exhilaration and risk of fireworks so well. Thank you for sharing!
loved the line about being young American demigods! I fully identified especially with stepping ont he sizzling leftover wires.
Fireworks, well done burnt hotdogs, burgers, steam Escovitch Fish, and roasted corn on the griller plus family members dancing from the occasionally reggae beat pumping with bass from speakers. Who isn’t screaming from that damn good feeling of “Life is Good”. Awe… what a memory. Not to mention honoring the true independence of our country. This all use to mean so much to me till that one Fourth of July that cause our family not to be the same anymore. Sisters segregated, children segregated, parents segregated. No love, joy, spirit or inspiration to enjoy the Fourth of July anymore or any family events. July 4, 2015. Nina and Penny began a war that had been brewing for a long time that finally exploded. Bottles throwing from left to right, liquor everywhere. Nieces, nephew, aunties, and sisters caught an air taste even if you didn’t drink. You drank that day.
Oh Jannelle, that sounds like a devastating rift. I’m sorry to hear how your family’s been changed since then. This is such a powerful line: “even if you didn’t drink. You drank that day.” Thank you for sharing so honestly.
Thank you, Alice
great short story! It so precisely expresses the fragility of families and nations.
Thank you, Sheila
Two holidays in July only a few days apart. This is what it means to grow up in Canada and have an American father. In the 1960’s there were many American oil men in Alberta and the family get-togethers were as traditional as possible. While July 1 was reserved for Canada Day, cooking breakfast in Emily Murphy Park with my mother’s relatives and watching raft races down the North Saskatchewan River; July 4 was reserved for my father’s family and friends in Kinsmen Park. We ate fried chicken, ice cream, and watermelon, had three-legged races, potato sack races, and played baseball till the sun went down which was close to midnight in the middle of summer at the 49th parallel. I could count on these fun times like clockwork every year and it never occurred to me that the people celebrating each were celebrating the independence of a different country. When I moved to the United States in high school, no one seemed to even know that Canada was an independent country. Most of my peers thought we were still under British rule, that I lived in an igloo, and talked “funny”. I didn’t know how I could have a Canadian accent when fully half of my relatives were from Texas, but some people swore I talked like a Canadian. What’s up with that, eh? What I found most appalling then and now, is that so many American citizens are so unaware of the history of other countries, and even more oblivious of their own history.
American Independence to me signifies the breaking free of a new nation from British colonization, a wild and ruthless inner drive of the founding fathers to create something new and fresh and spirited. Old traditions were carried over, but new ones were started. What a marvelous and heady feeling it must have been to be there at the signing of the Declaration of Independence. To finally see the fruit of the years of fighting and debating. To finally be without a king, able to form a government entirely of their own choosing. I wonder what the founding fathers would think if they could see the United States of America now. I wonder how close to their original dream today’s America would seem. I wonder if they knew what they were creating when they took the pen and signed the paper.
This is a powerful story, Jay. I love that cross-cultural upbringing—although it’s incredibly difficult when those around you don’t understand or appreciate it. And what did the founding fathers imagine for the US over 200 years later? That’s a great question. Thank you for sharing?
Thank you Alice!
The light of day is still settled over the city in a comforting glow of waning, soft yellow as I run the length of the cracked, gum-riddled sidewalk. Every little bit of Vitamin D still being shot down to Earth by its rays is soaking into my skin as I jump over the cracks, narrowly avoiding the last one before jumping onto the grassy area beyond.
Behind me, my mom is walking leisurely, just a few paces behind my sister and her friend who are laughing and strutting with purpose. I only spare them a glance, just to make sure my mom can still see me, before I dash ahead once more, climbing over the little hill that leads down into the mall parking lot. Standing tall at the top, tiny hands on my nonexistent hips, I take in the sight before me, the sun feeling as if its heating me from the inside as unabashed warmth flows through my body.
Scores of people surround me on this grassy hill, taking up temporary residence for the night’s festivities that should happening very soon if I recalled correctly. A sea of colors covered the green of the ground as different colored blankets in a variety of sizes littered the area, barely a slither of nature’s own green visible through the tight space left.
Walking now, I scan around me for a place for my family to set up our own blankets—my mother’s large, bland forgettable colored blanket, my sister’s blue, knit-woven quilt, and my own faded pink sleeping bag with my favorite cartoon superhero sisters sporting the front of it.
It’s difficult to find space in the crowded hill, but my mom’s stern voice breaks me of my growing anxiousness. I quickly seek her out and am relieved to find our three blankets laid out in a stretch of grass that’s a bit on the outskirts, away from the main crowd as my mom likes it, and I’m okay with that. The four of us settle down on our respective blankets and wait in anticipation for the show to start.
That was the plan, anyway. Time stretches on for me, each second like torturous hours to my face-paced mind, and it’s all of about five minutes before I’m up and yelling almost like an afterthought to my mom that I’ll be back. It only takes me minutes to seek out the friends I’m looking for; my neighbors who come to the same area as I do for this fiery night of exploding lights. We mess around for a bit, the darkness slowly creeping in overhead only heightening our senses, making us feel that much more. The show’s about to start.
When the first boom of the night hits, we all slow down to catch our breaths, but that only occupies our minds for a second before the next resonating rumble absolutely enraptures us. Without realizing it, we all go our separate ways, unconsciously seeking our families to share the rest of the night with. I hit my loose blanket with a soft crash, head never once leaving the brightly colored sparks in the sky.
My senses are numb to everything around me besides the riveting shower of colors overtaking my sight, and the deep thunder of fireworks and chorus of ahhs that follow the exploding colors. This is what I’ve been waiting for.
As I stare up at my city’s firework show, I can’t help but let my mind wander. What does this American celebration look like in other cities around the country? Surely the ones in New York are wondrous beauties, bigger and longer than I’ve ever seen in my modest city. It doesn’t fill me regret that I can’t go see those firework shows, though. No, I feel nothing but happiness that I get to witness and be a part of something bigger than myself right here at home with my friends and family.
I know there are hundreds of people surrounding me, and I’ll take a look at them later, when the show is over and my family packs up hurriedly, my mom in a rush to get back to the safety of our home before traffic hits the busy streets. I’ll walk back home with my head down in my thoughts, my mom beside me this time, my sister and her friend chatting quietly behind us. The anticipation is over and with that, drained from the bodies of those around me as they trail home. The journey back home will be a quick one because my mind is still in that marvelous show that I just witnessed. It’s pretty hard to just jump back into the real world after going through such an exhilarating moment, and it’s pretty easy for me stay in that dream-like state for a little while longer, just until we get home and I tuck myself into bed.
For now, though, my entire being is content to soak up all the excitement and joy and happiness I get from an annual array of sparks in the sky, simultaneously sharing this moment with everyone around me and yet still feeling as if I’m the only person in the world.
Wonderful title. It means we are all Americans. No mater our race, religion, and culture. We are all one.
I love that!
You know where Kirk says to Spock, ‘We’re all people,’ and Spock thinks about that for a moment and replies, ‘I find that insulting.’ Until this moment, I actually thought that Spock was showing a rather poor character. Kirk had been trying to include everyone of all species into one group in a gesture of good will and inclusion, and Spock slaps him down? Poor show. But looking at the above comment, I’m changing my mind. I am NOT an American, and I don’t want to be reached-out-to by someone saying in a good-natured way, ‘Hey, it’s cool, we’re all Americans, like deep-down.’ Like they’re being generous and inclusional. Because it is insulting, in a way. We need to find a more inclusional way of being inclusional. Whilst I’m sure there are a lot of wonderful people with wonderful values in America, more and more it seems that that country is embracing of capitalism and global hegemony. I don’t want to be tarred with that brush.
Being born an American is either a karmic payoff or a lottery win. But the chains of karma are both golden and iron, either way come with responsibilities and restrictions. And a the luck of the draw is nothing to crow about unless we fully participate in the ongoing birthing of our nation.
I consider it good fortune to be born in the USA. Only if there is life before life, did I do anything to earn it. And if that is a reality and I did do something to earn it, it doesn’t mean I can’t screw it up this time around and lose the liberties I am blessed with. If on the other hand, it was my ancestors who did the fighting and dying and risk taking that resulted in these blessings I inherited by of virtue being born within these borders, then I owe a debt of gratitude to those who came before me, and that gratitude is best proven by knowing and understanding the history that brought my fore-bearers to these shores and the struggles that they undertook and the mistakes they made to make this country the beacon of freedom that we claim it to be. But our country still needs much improvement to make it what many assert it already is.
Many born here do not enjoy the blessings that others take for granted.
For starters this country owes the natives, of what many of them refer to as Turtle Island, deep and abiding respect. Our country needs to do whatever it takes to honor the treaties signed by and the standoffs made to those who went before us. Our manifest destiny forefathers destroyed, raped, pillaged, infected, and colonized the previous inhabitants of these lands, their resources and cultures and are still doing so to this day yet many of the tribes continue to endure with amazing resilience but also with deep wounds. We need to do everything to heal those wounds and not with the mind of the colonizers but by listening to the needs and ideas of the survivors of the historical abuse we inflicted.
Our founding fathers struggled with their concepts of freedom, liberty, and equality, while they owned slaves and refused to acknowledge equal rights for women or the poor. We need to struggle as well to better understand and implement the best of those concepts, so that the words of Thomas Jefferson, that all men are created equal with inalienable rights, actually applies to all people, not just men, not just white men, not just the wealthy, not just Christians (which Thomas Jefferson was not.)
Also we made this nation a rich and therefore powerful one on the backs of human beings whom we used as slaves. There is a debt owed to them until we can find no statistical differences between the so-called races when in fact we are all of the same single family, the human race.
If we are not doing anything to expand the Ideal of equality for all, then we are traitors to the Ideal of our country. If we are clinging to the notion that any one group or collective of groups is better than others not born here, or those born anywhere into poverty or with gender identities or sexual orientations or skin coloring or religions different than the dominant culture, then we are guilty of treason.
If we just claim our greatness and our countries superiority without doing anything to make it a better county we are seditionists who are betraying our countries ideals while cawing like crows who eat road kill.
Our country change our Constitution17 times after the Bill of Rights that amended our original Constitution in 1791 by ratifying 10 of the 12 Amendments written by James Madison. He wrote them in response to several states that called for constitutional protection of individual liberties. We needed those amendmendments because the Constitution was not perfect then and it still is not perfect, and will never be. We the people evolve, understand more, so we evolve our system of governance that has never truly recognized the equality of all.. We are still evolving and we need to continue to evolve our Constitution.
Currently we are still struggling with big money in politics that constitutionally per our Supreme Court gives more voice and therefore more representation to the wealthy. We, the current citizens need to work to get a constitutional amendment that guaranties that liberty of one voice one vote to better establish the democratic republic we are striving to be.
I am not a nationalist. I don’t tout my country as being better than all others. I understand every country needs laws and borders to maintain levels of order. But the reality is that this country was founded by men and women protesting and flaunting the laws of the nation that presumed to rule it. This country was founded by revolutionists, freedom fighters, insurgents against the ruling class of a far away land. Now we’ve become that country that attempts to rule and impose inequities not only on other countries but on our own citizenry. If we cannot bring the equality and freedoms we purport to have into a greater fruition via a political revolution, armed revolutions may be our history repeating itself.
Let freedom ring for all people everywhere.
The Fourth of July was always the great day of independence from parental restrictions. It was the only day a year I could to all hours, (At least it felt like all hours) to watch fireworks that were so loud they seemed to beat against my chest. I wasn’t even allowed to stay up past nine on New Years. It was also the day I got my first real taste of personal freedom.
We would invite over another family, the O’Brians, to a cook out in the backyard, the smoke from Witch Bombs still drifting across the yellowing grass and the neighbors playing a guitare and singing just over the fence. They had a little girl named Eveline who we called Evie, and once, she couldn’t have been more than three or four when my dad gave us all sparklers. We were tearing around the backyard barefoot, of course, but Evie had to stay on the porch. She was too little to keep up with the rest of us. Dad had a cup to put the used sparklers in once they fizzled out, but Evie must have dropped one on the porch where it lay, dangerously smoldering and invisible in the half-light. We were called up onto the porch to get hotdogs, but just as I was reaching out to accept a plate with watermelon and corn rolling haphazardly to the edges, I felt as if someone had stabbed the bottom of my left foot, just right and below my pinky toe with a molten knife.
I shot into the air with an agonized howl, making the conversation, guitar music, and singing screech to an astonished halt. I tried not to cry because nine years old was too big to carry on about getting hurt, but I couldn’t help shedding a few tears as my dad carried me over to a chair that had been dragged outside. After a few minutes, the source of my injury was discovered, and in the whirlwind of adults fussing over me, the suspect was able to slip under the radar. After taking a look at the bottom of my foot, Dad fished a can of ginger ale from the cooler and told me to press it to my burn.
After it became lukewarm against my little bare feet, Dad allowed me to drink the forbidden soda. Until that moment, you see, I had only ever been allowed to have a few furtive sips from my mom’s sprite or my dad’s coke, which they hardly ever had, opting instead for whiskey or beer.
Triumphantly, I grinned gap-toothed at my jealous sister and the O’Brian kids between sips. As the ginger ale tickled and whizzed through my throat, I coughed and choked on my new freedom, as pleased as I ever could be to get injured. The scar is still there on the bottom of my foot, but I don’t think I could begrudge its existence. It won me soda privileges, after all.