This year, it was not my intention to celebrate the Fourth of July. With a husband in deportation proceedings and the bitter reports of the thousands of migrant children crossing dangerous deserts in quickly rising temperatures to find so-called Americans rallying to deny them a chance at their supposed freedom, it did not seem appropriate. But at the last moment, my partner and I decided to take a couple of dollars from our rent stash to buy meat and grill it on our balcony as we watched the neighborhood children light fireworks on the ground and sky. In the end, our Fourth of July had a different meaning than that of mainstream. We did not celebrate freedom - my partner, at any moment, can be deported and we are currently enslaved to our low-paying jobs and quickly-rising IRS debt. Instead, we celebrated another day of our small family. As I diced tomatoes and onions to add to the salted cilantro watered in lemon, Jose waited on the charcoal to gray while helping Maya spot the burning lights in the sky.