The day my city was made for in through the looking glass.

The Fourth of July is when this city really comes to life, revealing a soul typically hidden behind an uptight, forcefully ambitious facade. It’s a common misconception that fireworks are legal here, because from dusk until the early hours of the following day, fireworks scatter the skyline in every direction, the sound reverberating in deep and piercing tones off all the new apartment buildings that have suddenly cropped up in this neighborhood.

We make the walk down to the river to watch the illicit fireworks light the skies in the hills on the other side, a long-standing tradition of the people who have spent entire lifetimes in this city that is, for many of us, just a pass through. A group of people always finds their way to one of the only remaining parking lots in our neighborhood to shoot off impressively large fireworks. The cops always show up to ruin the fun. We watch from our apartment window, and I wonder how many more Fourths we’ll have left to enjoy this empty lot.

Earlier in the night, we walk to the Mall, where the tourists have been sitting, waiting for hours, to watch the fireworks display over the Washington Monument. For a moment, polarizing politics don’t exist; we are all united in our awe and very American joy in the exorbitant, excessive finale.

I worked my first holiday shift as an employee of the District today. All I feel is pride. In part, pride for the work we do for the residents and visitors of this city. But mostly just pride that this city is mine.