Fireworks Without a Flag

Notes from an American abroad who’s not in the mood to celebrate

There’s a certain kind of ache that comes with watching fireworks from far away. Not the romantic kind. Not the cinematic ache of homesickness or nostalgia. It’s quieter than that. More like a splinter in the soul. A slow-burning grief for something you thought you understood, and no longer do.

This year, again, I won’t be celebrating the Fourth of July. Not with hot dogs. Not with hashtags. Not with choreographed patriotism or that awkward urge to hum the national anthem under my breath like it still means something.

I live abroad, where I can be quietly American without the glitter and the guilt. But that doesn’t mean I’m at peace. Because even here, oceans away, I carry the weight of it. The embarrassment. The anger. The absurdity. I’m the one people turn to in the coffeeshop, on the train, at the office: “So… what’s going on over there?”

And all I can do is laugh, the dry, tired kind, and say, “Yeah… I don’t know either.”

I used to love the Fourth. The way the sky cracked open at night with color and noise. The sticky fingers from bomb popsicles, the scent of grass and grills. It felt like magic. It felt like meaning.

Maybe part of that love came from growing up as a military brat steeped in tradition, surrounded by flags folded just so taught to respect service, sacrifice, and country. Patriotism wasn’t performative where I came from. It was deep, lived, and laced with pride. I was raised to believe in the best of us.

But now, what are we even celebrating?

The land of the free, where we cage children and criminalise compassion? Where we praise strongmen with fragile egos and silence anyone who dares to say the emperor is tweeting in the nude?

From here, I’ve watched America sneer at its allies burn bridges like bonfires turn its back on immigrants, the very people who built it and call that strength.

We don’t seem interested in neighbours anymore, only enemies. Diplomacy is passé. Empathy? Un-American. All that matters now is power. Loud, crude, and cruel.

And for someone who has spent years studying soft power how trust, respect, and culture shape the world it’s heart-breaking to watch that power rot from the inside. To see the country I love become a cautionary tale instead of an aspiration.

So no, I won’t be lighting sparklers this year. The sky can stay dark and honest. I won’t be posting flag emojis or pretending the stars and stripes haven’t frayed at the seams.

I’ll be mourning, not because I hate America but because I love her still. Not blindly, not naively but fiercely, with a grief that only love can carry.

Because buried somewhere in the slogans and smoke there was a promise that we could be something better.

Not bigger. Not richer. Just worthy of the promise we made..

And that’s the thing. Real patriotism isn’t performative. It doesn’t wear a flag like a cape and call itself a hero. It’s quieter than that. It’s protest. It’s repair. It’s picking up the pieces when the fireworks are over.

It’s knowing we’ve failed, and dreaming anyway.

So I’ll celebrate in my own way. With conversations that hold room for grief and imagination. With stubborn hope and cautious optimism. With kindness as rebellion, and care as creed.

Because maybe the most American thing I can do right now is not to wave a flag but to reach for a future that hasn’t been written yet.

One where we build something softer, smarter, and more just. Not out of nostalgia but out of love.

And that, at least is worth lighting a spark for.

Love,

An American in protest