What Does the Fourth Mean to Me?
Written by Larisa DaSilva| Project Manager, Enlightened Solutions
Sparklers, ceviche, and a backyard fire were staples in my family’s Fourth of July routine.
I can still smell the heavy chlorine on my skin after a fun splashing battle with my cousins in my grandmother’s pool. When I was a child, Independence Day was my favorite holiday behind Christmas. It fell on the day after my birthday so my parents claimed the pre-holiday fireworks were a tribute for me. Red, white, and blue decorations would line my suburban development as our tumbling feet raced down the evenly paved streets to escape the poppers being thrown by our friendly neighbors.
As the daughter of immigrants, I held Independence Day in the highest regard.
It was a day we remembered the sacrifices my family made, from circumstance and luck, which allowed me to be born in America — as a full citizen. I was taught to wear that prestigious status with immense pride — then racism forced me to grow up, quickly and without condition.
I experienced racial bias before gaining the vocabulary to understand what was happening. Growing up in Northeast Ohio, my parents believed a suburban education would grant me more opportunity than if we stayed in the city. They were wrong. My school life was riddled with bitter and pointed microaggressions from white classmates whose parents taught them I did not merit sitting next to them in class. I experienced imposter syndrome before I knew how to describe it; doubting my abilities while mediocrity was rewarded and my intelligence was doubted by educators. My experiences of gaslighting are not unique — mine is a story too many times by people of color in white spaces.
Yet I persevered because in the United States “everyone was treated equally” (just don’t mention race or the cognitive dissonance of factual history). I understood it. I believed it. I held onto it with a grip so fierce, I would have won any tug-of-war match at an Olympic level.
Then came Trayvon Martin and Sandy Hook. Then came Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, and Sandra Bland. Then came Pulse, The Emanuel 9, Parkland, Vanessa Guillen, and Adam Toledo. And most recently, Mikiyah Bryant — and so many others that came and were lost to systemic race, gender, and sexual-based violence — all before I reached 23 years old.
Even as a proud member of Gen Z, I know America’s racial awakening did not begin in 2020 with the murder of George Floyd. The conversation had begun when enslaved Black Peoples were brought to a land already inhabited by Native civilizations being reduced by systemic removal and genocide. Our soil is enriched with the (forced and unforced) contributions of Black and Brown individuals aspiring to be free, safe, and actualized. Where lifesaving healthcare, gender affirmation, and immigration status are tied to work status and productivity.
I use the Fourth to reflect on my growth as a human being in America and what steps I am taking to “reach as I climb” helping marginalized individuals and amplifying voices as I go. I use the time off to rest and reset, understanding as a biracial Mexican-Black Woman, however, I measure success, is a revolution in its own right.
Independence Day is a day for me to take a step back and acknowledge the incredible work marginalized communities have done to not only survive but thrive in the face of immense adversity.
It is a day to recognize that we will progress as a country, only if people aim to be the solution to a past that is at times equally brave and complicated. It is a day to honor underserved communities across the country, our towns, and our classrooms. For me, Independence Day represents hope in the face of solace, a day of strength rather than fault, a day of reflection rather than grief. Marginalized Americans have shown immense courage and tenacity, for shifting inequality to equity.
We may not all be free but we do have the freedom to decide what the Fourth means to us; it is a right our country cannot take back now.
