Every Fourth of July, our Declaration of Independence is

Host: The heat of July hung in the air like a veil, thick and unforgiving, weighing down on the small town square where the celebration had just ended. The smell of gunpowder and grilled meat still lingered, mixing with the echoes of cheers and the distant laughter of children. Red, white, and blue ribbons fluttered weakly from the lamp posts, their colors already fading in the waning light.

Jack sat on a bench, his shirt damp with sweat, a half-empty bottle of beer in his hand. His grey eyes watched the flag at the courthouse, swaying in the breeze, while Jeeny approached, barefoot, carrying her sandals and a quiet, unsettled look.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we celebrate freedom with such fervor, while forgetting how many still live without it. Garrison saw that — saw through the fireworks and the rhetoric. He called the Declaration ‘pitiful’ compared to what the slaves endured.”

Jack: (takes a swig, smirks) “And he was right, in a way. But it’s easy to judge history from the comfort of the present. Those men in 1776 were fighting for their own chains to be broken, not everyone else’s.”

Host: The light shifted, casting long shadows across the square, like bars of an invisible cage. A group of teenagers passed by, their faces painted, their laughter carefree, oblivious.

Jeeny: “That’s the problem, Jack. Freedom always seems to belong to the few before it’s shared by the many. They declared independence from a king, but ignored the chains in their own backyards. Isn’t that hypocrisy?”

Jack: “Or just human nature. You fight for your own pain first. Maybe it’s selfish, but it’s honest. You can’t save the world when you’re still bleeding yourself.”

Host: A flag snapped sharply in the wind, the sound like a whip-crack. Jeeny flinched, her eyes darkening.

Jeeny: “Tell that to the slaves, Jack. To those who bled for a freedom that wasn’t even promised to them. The Declaration spoke of ‘unalienable rights,’ but those words were written by men who owned other human beings. Can you imagine how that must have felt — to hear your masters praise liberty while you suffered in chains?”

Jack: (pauses, leans forward) “I can imagine it, yes. But you’re forgetting — that’s the contradiction that built America. Ideals are pure, people aren’t. The same document that ignored them also planted the seed for their freedom. It just took a war and a century to grow.”

Host: The sunset was bleeding across the horizon, painting the sky in scarlet and amber, like a wound that refused to close. Jeeny sat beside him, her voice soft, but her words cutting.

Jeeny: “That’s what we tell ourselves, isn’t it? That time will heal what injustice creates. But time doesn’t heal; people do. And most of them don’t. They just forget. Every Fourth of July, we wave the flag and call ourselves free, but freedom isn’t a day on a calendar, Jack. It’s a promise we still break.”

Jack: “You talk like the world should be perfect, Jeeny. It’s not. It’s a process. You want to judge Jefferson? Fine. But without him, without that Declaration, we wouldn’t have the language to even condemn him. That’s the paradox — the flawed birth of a noble idea.”

Host: The wind lifted a plastic flag from a table, carrying it across the street, where it landed in a muddy puddle. Jeeny’s eyes followed it, her expression a mixture of sadness and anger.

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we stop celebrating the idea and start living the truth. Because language doesn’t free people, Jack — actions do. The abolitionists, the freedom riders, the marchers — they faced the same flag, but saw a different meaning in it. Garrison burned the Constitution once, called it a ‘covenant with death.’ Maybe he was the only one honest enough to see it.”

Jack: (his brows furrow) “And yet, it was that same Constitution that allowed change — that abolished slavery, that guaranteed rights. You can’t just tear down what built the progress you admire. Garrison’s fire was pure, sure — but purity doesn’t build, it burns.”

Host: The evening darkened, the first fireworks bursting in the distance, their colors reflected in the wet street like shattered stars. Jack watched them, his face lit for a moment, then shadowed again.

Jeeny: “Sometimes you have to burn before you can build. Isn’t that what revolutions are? Fire before freedom? Garrison’s rage wasn’t blind — it was moral. He looked at the nation and refused to celebrate a lie. How many of us could do the same?”

Jack: “And how many lies can we afford to tear before there’s nothing left to stand on? Every nation is built on contradiction — we just choose which side of it to believe. You admire Garrison, but if everyone thought like him, the Union might not have survived long enough to end slavery.”

Host: The fireworks exploded again, red, white, and blue, drowning the sky in color and smoke. Jeeny’s voice rose above it, steady, fierce, beautifully defiant.

Jeeny: “Maybe survival isn’t the point. Maybe truth is. What’s the use of a Union that survives by betraying its own words? The Declaration was a promise, Jack — not just to colonists, but to humanity. If we don’t honor that promise, then every Fourth of July is just a costume — a disguise for our fear of honesty.”

Host: The sound of the fireworks faded, leaving only the soft crackling of spent sparklers. Jack looked down, his hands resting on his knees, his voice quiet, tired, almost tender.

Jack: “You’re not wrong. But you’re not fair either. We inherit our flaws, Jeeny, just like we inherit our freedom. The Declaration wasn’t a lie — it was an unfinished sentence. And every generation gets a chance to finish it.”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Then maybe that’s the real celebration — not the flags, not the fireworks, but the work we still have to do. Maybe the Fourth of July should be a mirror, not a stage.”

Host: A gentle breeze stirred, lifting the fallen flag from the mud, pressing it lightly against the curb — not flying, but not forgotten. The music from the bandstand echoed faintly — a slow, fading melody, as if the nation itself were exhaling after a long, uncomfortable truth.

Jack: (half-smiles) “A mirror, huh? Careful — people don’t like what they see in those.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe that’s why we need them.”

Host: The night deepened, swallowing the square in shadows and memory. Above, the flag still moved, restless in the wind — a symbol, a contradiction, a question that no anthem could ever fully answer. And beneath it, two voices lingered, bound not by agreement, but by the unspoken understanding that freedom — true freedom — is never finished. It must be argued, defended, and dreamed — again and again, as long as there are those willing to speak beneath its light.