A Body of Work, Kept in Order

I was dreading the Fourth of July this year. I had decided not to write about it on the actual day. The thought of doing so left me frustrated and exhausted before I even began. I needed time to feel my feelings, to truly acknowledge what the day actually stirred before I could put it into words. So when the day arrived, I mounted my camera to my car and recorded the unedited celebration on the streets. I drove through Chicago, from the city into the suburbs, downtown onto Lake Shore Drive, up through the Northside all the way to Skokie, and then to the west side. What I witnessed forced me to put words to something that too many people feel alone in thinking. I needed to give my own mind rest, and I knew others needed to see that they were not the only ones looking at the spectacle and feeling the same weight I felt.

I expected white people to gather downtown as they always do. I did not expect the sheer number of Black people, Latinos, and Muslims who were out in the streets, in the parks, on the sidewalks, lighting fireworks, waving flags, and performing joy with a fullness that felt both familiar and deeply wrong. I should not have been surprised. This year was not different from previous years. BIPOC communities have celebrated this holiday for a long time. My expectation had shifted because of the growing recognition of Juneteenth and because I had noticed less of the early, pre-holiday fireworks. If you’ve lived in Chicago you know that it’s not uncommon to hear and see fireworks everyday from May to August. This year was different. The weather had been stormy, raining off and on even on the day itself, which likely dampened the premature explosions. The circumstances fooled me into thinking something had changed. But driving through neighborhood after neighborhood made it clear that many people were celebrating with a blissful ignorance, as if they actually had something in this holiday that belonged to them.