The Flowers that Looked Like Fireworks

Once school had ended for the summer, my brother and I would start playing on a slip ‘n’ slide in our backyard and harassing each other out of boredom. My family would start eating outside. We’d get mosquito bites on our mosquito bites from playing late into the night in the hot, dry air. I always knew we were getting close to the Fourth of July and our true summer time when my dad would comment that the purple flowers in our yard were blooming. That they were beginning to look like fireworks again.

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The Fourth of July always held a special magic. Not because of my family’s passionate nationalism or love for our country, but because it was time we spent with our family having a party.

When I was younger, the parties were usually hosted by my mom and dad in our backyard. It was so glaringly American it was almost disgusting. As a young kid, they were full of brownies, snacks, sparklers, and games with my cousins.

My dad would barbecue. My mom was the perfect hostess. When she hosts a party, she lights up. She knows exactly how much time to spend talking to each guest. She knows precisely when we need more ice or more alcohol or less. Watching her was like watching a world championship poker player. Each look and each placement of the hands was so calculated. I didn’t realize how difficult it would become to live up to that perfection she modeled at the time. It’s not like she was perfectly happy at the time; she was incredibly stressed. She was constantly worried about the party being too loud or our creepy family friend being weird to my very married aunt. There were a million things for her to stress about, all of which were of very little actual importance to the outside world, but in our bubble each issue carried much more weight than you could imagine.

My mom has five siblings: three sisters and two brothers. Because of this huge extended family and because of each sibling’s unique brand of craziness, the politics of these events were complex and hilarious. There was always a weird passive aggressive undertone to each conversation. Navigating every compliment given was like navigating a minefield. Everyone’s outfits were picked apart by our family members like a swarm of vultures fighting over a dead carcass.

Witnessing these family politics at a young age taught me a lot about existing in the bubble I was brought up in. I learned how to give or receive a backhanded compliment. I learned how to network. I learned how to ask about someone’s job and seem genuinely curious to their answer (which I never was).

I loved listening to my dad talk about carpentry with an uncle or family friend. I watched in astonishment as my grandmother somehow judged every single person she came in contact with, but still made them feel somehow appreciative of having talked to her.

I wasn’t only witnessing my extended family though; I was playing and talking with my cousins in the treehouse my dad built in our avocado tree. We played house–I was always the dad. We passed notes from that treehouse to the smaller one on the other side of the yard through a rope and pulley system my brother and I had developed in preparation for the party. The boys often had avocado fights and threw the big, green fruits at each other as my cousin and I sat gossiping and discussing our family.

Feelings came out after a certain number of hours into the night that were definitely linked to how much alcohol my family had consumed by that point. I didn’t understand it very well at the time. I swore to my mom that I would never let alcohol touch my lips because I never wanted to end up like them. It bothered me to watch her and her siblings only be able to show their affection once they were all a little tipsy. Some part of me still understood why they needed it though, and why they couldn’t stop. Still, it hurt when a drunk family member stumbled over my treasured agapanthus. They looked less like fireworks, crushed under someone’s boot.