I’m spending my 4th of July at my Mexican in-laws’ house. Because nothing says Americana like Mexican Cokes and tortillas while watching World Cup futbol on Univision, amirite?
In all seriousness, the 4th of July is one of my favorite holidays. Maybe that’s because I grew up in Massachusetts, the most earnestly patriotic state in the country. We thought nothing of our American flag throw blanket in our red-white-and-blue living room or our life-sized, framed Declaration of Independence hanging in our also red-white-and-blue study. (Wow. Now that I think about it, that was a bit much. Glad Mom and Dad decided to redecorate.)
Californians celebrate 4th of July just a little bit differently than our East Coast counterparts. While I have fond memories of ingesting obscene amounts of hot dogs while floating from cookout to cookout, setting off sparklers in the backyard or sitting on a blanket in East Park watching fireworks (Massachusetts), here in Cali we go: “Man, I really don’t want to sit in hours and hours of traffic. I think I’ll chill out in my postage-stamp-sized backyard and fire off my guns.” (Or at least, that’s what people in Salinas do.)
But it’s all good. We’re barbecuing with family. We’re teaching our son how to play T-ball and catch with his glove. We’ll likely down a few Coronas and share a lot of laughs. Because (to be earnestly patriotic for a second), this is, actually, what America is all about. It’s a melting pot of cultures (cliche, I know, but also the truth), a mix of Mexicans and Italians and East Coast and West Coast and black and white and brown and yellow.
And red, white, and blue. Happy 4th, everyone!
The Olive Gal
green of skin, black of heart
