“We’re Americans, with a capital A! You know what that means? Do you? That means that our forefathers were kicked out of every decent country in the world. We are the wretched refuse. We’re the underdog. We’re mutts!” – Bill Murray as John Winger in “Stripes,” 1981
When I picture the Fourth of July, old white guys in curly powdered wigs and buttoned breeches don’t come to mind. No way. I think of Midwest summer nights where the humidity lies on my skin like a veil. Bomb pops and rainbow sherbet. Fireflies at dusk, flitting around outdoor gatherings as cousins trade jokes with a friendly, rough-and-tumble edge.
