Growing up on a reservation means you grew up playing with some dangerous-ass fireworks. It means, inside a confused warrior culture, that you broke into the old high school and had bottle rocket fights in the dark gym. It means you believed the myth that M-80 firecrackers were the equivalent of quarter sticks of dynamite.
And, oh yeah, fireworks means rockets' red glare, bombs bursting in air, kick British ass, and give them Canada as a consolation prize. It means, in 1776, that nobody was fighting for Indian independence except Indians.
It means I'll be (un)ironically watching fireworks over Lake Union. It means they'll play "Purple Haze" as purple rockets explode.
Fireworks are so literal. Independence Day is even more literal. But I'll mostly be celebrating my family and friends' ability to bravely eat dozens of hot dogs.