INDEPENDENCE DAY
July Fourth is here and American propaganda is in full swing: couples claim porch swings, cowboys riding horses into the dust, montages of the heartland on repeat, parents chase toddlers wielding sparklers, and somewhere between the apple pie and the “Star-Spangled Banner” an unspoken rule surfaces—that patriotism is best celebrated in pairs. This year, I’m lighting a Roman candle under that assumption. Beyoncé—our leather-gloved feminist icon and queen of single lady anthems —will belt “Single Ladies” on the Cowboy Carter tour, on the National Mall, and I can’t think of a louder cue to redraw the symbolism of Independence Day.
Let’s rewind. The original holiday marks a rebellion against taxation without representation, yet modern single women still pony up a “singles tax” in social expectations, workplace bias, and holiday travel surcharges. We buy shower gifts, wedding gifts, baby-blessing gifts—yet our life milestones rarely command a registry. The Founding Fathers dumped tea; maybe it’s time the Founding Aunties dump the assumption that freedom arrives only with a plus-one.
Beyoncé’s presence in the capital on July 4th is a cosmic wink. Washington, D.C., is the epicenter of law and lobby, a place that still debates how much bodily autonomy a woman deserves. When Queen B shouts, “I put my hands up,” it doubles as a political gesture—a rhythmic filibuster reminding Congress that single women, now nearly one-third of the electorate, want more than fireworks: we want policies that respect our purchasing power, career trajectories, and reproductive choices.
Reclaiming the Fourth means repurposing its rituals. Fireworks? They now symbolize every glass ceiling we explode through. Barbecues? Perfect for toasting to pay-equity wins and the growing wave of single-women homeowners. Parades? Let’s make room for floats celebrating entrepreneurs who bootstrap without a spouse’s safety net and aunties who bankroll nieces’ coding camps..
The Founding Fathers dumped tea; maybe it’s time the Founding Aunties dump the assumption that freedom arrives only with a plus-one.
And what of love? The reimagined Fourth doesn’t ban romance; it just refuses to make partnership the sole passport to social legitimacy. Single women fall in love, out of love, sideways into situationships—but the new independence ethos says optionality is victory. Our relationships, like America are experiments in self-governance—messy, iterative, subject to amendments.
On July 4th, when Trump is online crying about his crowd sizes and the “dance party with Beyoncé.” She will hit that final beat, a constellation of women will raise phones like torches, each filming proof that she’s free in ways unimaginable to 1776. That’s the kind of revolution worth an annual reenactment: stars in our eyes, stripes in our skirts, and independence—finally—tailored to fit every single lady. And happy birthday to Malia Obama - our Yankee-doodle girl and Independence Day icon!
