I'm tired of pretending.
I'm tired of watching people dress up in red, white, and blue like it's a costume party for freedom — while the ghosts of my ancestors stand in the shadows, silent and uncelebrated.
The Fourth of July is not a celebration of liberty for Black people.
It is a reminder of who was left out of that liberty.
It is a reminder of who built this country with their hands, their blood, their wombs, and their bones — and were never invited to the table.
The Truth No One Wants to Say
In 1776, the Declaration of Independence was signed.
It declared that "all men are created equal."
But Black people were still enslaved.
We were not counted as men.
We were counted as property.
That is the foundation of this country's independence.
So when the fireworks explode, I don't hear freedom.
I hear the echoes of trauma.
I hear the guns of war where Black soldiers were used as cannon fodder — sent to fight for a freedom they would not be allowed to taste.
I hear the bombs that have been dropped on Black communities, in our streets, in our homes, in our bodies, for centuries.
I hear the sound of a nation that has never truly apologized for what it stole.
My Download on the 4th
Yesterday, I stood outside and heard the fireworks.
And Spirit said: "This is not celebration. This is remembrance of trauma."
I felt the ancestors — the ones who fought in the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, both World Wars, Vietnam, and every war since — only to return home and still be treated as less than human.
I felt the women who birthed children into slavery, knowing their babies would never be free.
I felt the ones who prayed for deliverance that never came — at least not from this country.
Why I'm Staying Inside
Next year, I will not be attending cookouts.
I will not be waving flags.
I will not be singing the anthem.
I will be doing spellwork.
I will be honoring my ancestors.
I will be cutting cords from the energy of a nation that has never fully honored me.
Because my ancestors didn't get to celebrate the Fourth of July.
They were fighting for survival while others were celebrating freedom.
A Call to My People
If you are reading this and you feel something stirring in your chest — stop ignoring it.
That discomfort is your soul telling you: "This is not for you. This was never for you."
You don't have to hate America.
But you don't have to pretend it loves you back either.
You can honor your ancestors by being honest.
By remembering what they survived.
By refusing to dress up their pain as a party.
Final Thought
I am grateful to be alive.
I am grateful for my Nigerian King, who reminds me to protect my energy.
I am grateful for my ancestors, who carried me to this moment.
But I will not celebrate my oppression.
And I will not pretend that fireworks are the sound of freedom.
Not while my ancestors are still weeping.
Written in truth. Shared in love. Protected by the ancestors.
Comments ()