Chapter 7: Fireworks and Childhood Longings

Now, let me talk about the fireworks plant.

The small town where I was born is nestled in the hills, and its main industry is fireworks.

The plant was more than a workplace—it was the heartbeat of the community. The Fourth of July, county fairs, weddings, even funerals—every big moment in town was marked by fireworks from that plant.

The fireworks plant is the largest employer in town—a monopoly, providing countless jobs and being a major taxpayer for the county.

Every family in town had at least one member who’d worked there at some point. The plant’s annual picnic was the social event of the summer—everyone dressed in their best, hoping to win a raffle for a year’s supply of sparklers.

The plant’s fireworks are sold across the country every year, and the locals love to set off fireworks for any occasion, big or small.

It was a source of pride, but also a source of tension. Competition for overtime hours was fierce, and the plant manager’s word was law.

But my family never bought fireworks.

It was a point of embarrassment for me as a child. On New Year’s Eve, I’d press my nose to the frosted window while our neighbors lit up the night.

Even though my father worked at the plant and could get them at an employee discount, he never brought any home.

Because fireworks were too expensive—gone in a flash, a fleeting luxury. It was better to spend that money on nutritional supplements for my mother.

I loved fireworks, but I understood our family’s hardships. So I often ran around the neighborhood to watch the neighbors set off theirs.

Sometimes I’d sneak into the neighbor’s backyard with the other kids, craning my neck to get the best view. My sneakers always got muddy, but it was worth it for those fleeting bursts of color.

I could always see them, but the feeling was different. If you set them off yourself, you could share them with others—like hosting guests in your own home. But watching others’ fireworks felt like standing on the sidewalk outside someone else’s barbecue—never truly comfortable.

The boy next door once blocked me from watching his family set off fireworks, saying we were poor, only good at mooching.

His words stung worse than a scraped knee. I swallowed my tears, pretending not to care, but it burned all the same.

I said if I couldn’t watch, then I wouldn’t, and turned away.

I didn’t care about such things. I thought, as long as my family was together, it didn’t matter if we were poor.

But even this humble wish, fate would not grant.