This summer I finally understood what it meant to be an American. Here’s how it happened. In the days leading up to the 4th of July, my friend invited me to attend an outdoor barbecue hosted by a family friend of hers. When we arrived at the party, I gazed out at the patriotic sight before me. In my peripheral I could see white middle aged dads grilling hot dogs and hamburgers. With their sons standing behind them like puppies trailing their owners. Closer to me I saw rows of plastic utility tables, some standing brazenly in the sun, while others cowered in the shade. Lastly, I saw an outdoor television that someone had placed adjacent to some of the picnic tables. The entire scene was painted with the roar of the sun shining overhead in the sky, its light reflecting off of the many patriotic decorations below. I was beginning to grow uncomfortably hot in my white T-shirt and jean shorts. So my friend and I quickly went to get our food in order to get a spot in the shade.
As we approached the steaming grills, the sound of a brassy, tenor hum grew steadily in my ears. It sounded like the horns in a Dia de los Muertos parade. When I got closer to the grills, I noticed that the hum was not some sound of Latin festivity, rather it came from one of the barbecue dads. He sang slow and steady, rhythmic “mmms” and “ooos” pulsing with the beat of his hands at the grill. Soon his vocalizations grew into a song: “Yo sé bien, Que estoy afuera.” As the dad saw us approaching his grill, he stopped his crooning and readied two hamburgers. My friend chuckled at his singing and the dad looked up, saying, “Haha! Sorry about that. My son just got back from his LDS mission to Tijuana and he’s been teaching us some Mexican tunes.” We shared a laugh and then he turned his attention back to the grill, continuing his Spanish trill.
To our relief, my friend and I found two seats shaded underneath a sturdy live oak tree. As we sat, talking and eating, I admired the all-American air surrounding us. To my left people sat talking, laughing, and chowing down on hot dogs smothered in sriracha sauce. I looked across the rows of tables to the far side of the lawn, I saw children and adults playing yard games like cornhole, or the Swedish game Kubb. At the table next to us, I overheard two guys talking to each other about the standout movies of the summer: “Have you seen “K-Pop Demon Hunters”?” One of the guys said to the other, “I heard it’s one of the best movies of the summer.”
As people finished dinner, different desserts were brought out. One dad prepared big tubs of Italian gelato, while another rolled his homemade churros in cinnamon and sugar. One platter had Italian cannolis, French pastries, and many other baked delicacies. All of them crammed together, uncomfortably, in their saccharine beauty. I heard many “mmms” and “ahhs” as the piles of desserts slowly grew smaller and smaller. Everyone seemed to be united as they enjoyed both familiar and foreign 4th of July sweets.
Later on in the day, as the hot and muggy afternoon turned into a cool, pleasant evening, I reflected on the all-American party: The hot dogs and sriracha sauce. The Spanish trills and American croons. The cornhole and Kubb. The many different desserts from around the globe. I felt spoiled to be able to see so many different sides and backgrounds of America. Everyone at the party brought aspects of their own culture, the same way immigrants from different countries did when America was just starting. I felt proud knowing that my country was an example of what could be achieved when cultures from around the world worked together.
That night, as we all watched fireworks go off together, I admired how all of the different colors blended together and created a star-spangled spectacle.
