The pair are stationed on rickety wooden bleachers three rows up from the start-finish line as a drowning sun releases one final, cobalt breath into the deepening horizon. The smells of popcorn and hotdogs waft between those of spent gasoline, and dust. The older men stand, their crooked hands like maps to treasured hearts, singing along. His Grampa one of them, the boy joins in.

The song ends. Rag-tag bottle rockets pop ingloriously about a listless, backstretch flagpole. The cars fire up, rattling the bleachers’ bones, pumping their electricity into an already perfect evening.

God surely blessed Grampa’s America.

.

I returned home. Not a hero. Not a pariah. But somewhere in the middle. My father blocked out our cul-de-sac and forced the neighborhood to hold a welcome back BBQ for me. Flags flew high. I’d learn later that my old man threatened the lives of those who refused. Some raised their beer glasses when they saw me, some patted me on the back. Many refrained from looking in my direction. While a select few held back snarls of bitter rage. Babykiller written in their eyes. It would be a week before I’d sleep and a lifetime before I’d forget.

I was born an American.

I was raised an American.

I was fed American lies.

Un-American lies are more tragic than American lies, but they're still all lies.

I can still love American. Not the style, the country.

Judge America by its past and it's hard to like the present. Can't that be said of anyone?

Has America paid all its debts to society? Regardless, it's still a convicted felon. An "offender."

For me, America remains on probation. And as one of its probation officers, I can still argue with Americans.

And love American. I can. To make Amerigo proud.

It was 1967, things were quiet. But I, along with the platoon Seargent and other men were grateful for the respite.

We were four miles south of a village called Vạn Phúc which means happiness, lucky, or good fortune, take your pick.

But we weren't being shot out, no snipers and it just felt good to relax.

When nightfall came, Danny Estrada, took out his lighter and set a few twigs on fire and started twirling them around like you would a sparkler.

We laughed, then he was shot.

Not the best fourth of July, I can tell you that.

Screaming pierces the red and blue illuminated day. Young innocents sprint to uniforms staying outside while friends turn cold. Some runners have maroon staining their clothes, all have unseeing eyes. As they escape weapons, they are only met with more - fleeing guns to hide behind more guns. Parents cry from relief as they embrace their warm kids. But some are left standing there, an empty space in front of them where their child is supposed to be. More shots add to the chaos. Uniforms shout that the target has been neutralised. Ended by the very weapon that started it.

We weren’t American enough for our neighbors growing up. I had rice and black beans in my lunchbox instead of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My mother got scolded for being at our community pool multiple times because they assumed an immigrant with an accent couldn’t be a resident.

We had nothing when we came over here. Today and tomorrow, I never have to worry about where my next meal comes from. I have a savings account and can even afford new clothes. I am not dripping in gold, but every day, I get to live the American dream.

Father raging against Mother, again. Her oft-repeated transgression? “Taking the cheese”, which was blasphemy in our house, so he’s laying into her.

The mere sight of government white labels and block letters drives him insane, yet she sneaks their processed reparations in whenever she can. But if not for handouts, we’d go hungry.

They’re a constant reminder to Father of his miserable upbringing on the reservation, all “they” took from our people, and his shortcomings to provide for his family.

“There’s no shame in taking what you need.” Mother shrugged.

Father smiled satirically, “What a very American thing to say.”

In a third-grade classroom, a black child sits, eyes wide. The history lesson a video. Images flash on the screen— dark skin, stripped of dignity, sold as mere chattel. His classmates fidget, dreaming of the carefree day off to come, celebrating America's 247th birthday. Yet, as the video delves deeper into the struggle for Negro voting rights of 1965- just 58 years ago; silence befalls him. His gaze absorbs the weight of history's burden. The white board had the word 'inclusion' with the American flag on one side, the rainbow striped on the other. He only sees himself on screen.

247 years before, the Patriot soldiers crossed my hometown. Stomachs gnawing in agony with their minds in spirals. Ready to fight for independence— for the bright future of America.

247 years before, they would come ford the river by Adrian Post’s farm near Toer’s Lane. Rain would delay the British, aiding the Patriots in their victory at the Delaware River.

247 years before, hope would arise in the Patriots to keep fighting.

247 years. 10 score and 47 years.

Now America can't give us a reason to keep fighting.

247 years later, what would they think of their sacrifice now?

I am a Canadian. Im proud, in my notable red, white, but limited blue garb to ensure everyone is aware of the fact. I glower at the Peace Arch from my friends car, parked alongside our unseasonably priced apartments-- but I know if we get rear-ended we have completely covered health insurance. Canada and America are brothers, neighbours, allies. We have our own version of 'southern hicks'. Im part of that. My Portuguese grandparents fought alongside the Americans. If America were bombed, Canada would be too. How weird, that we don't like each-other, but are the same. Siblings, for sure.