By the time July rolled around, the heat had settled in like it had paid rent. Kids talked nonstop about going to Powderhorn Park on the 4th of July. It was a Southside tradition. People from neighborhoods all over South Minneapolis headed to Powderhorn Park on the 4th. There would be families having picnics, kids running around, and teens walking around the pond to see who they could see, and of course, fireworks. The 4th of July celebration at Powderhorn had been going on for decades.
But at Derricks house, things were different this year.
“We’re staying home.” his mother said firmly over dinner a few nights before the holiday.
“What?” Derrick’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. “But we always go to Powderhorn.”
His sisters immediately chimed in. “Yeah! We wanna go. Please Mama?”
How father folded his hands on the table.
“It’s going to be packed this year. More than usual. Tensions are high, and when you get that many people in one place, anything can happen.”
“You mean like the riot last year over North?” Derrick asked quietly. He remembered hearing about Plymouth Avenue-the burning buildings, the National Guard in the streets. His parents exchanged a look.
“I mean folks are still hurt,” his mother said. “Dr. King gone. Bobby Kennedy gone. People are tired, and the police are jumpy. Sometimes all it takes is one stupid thing.”
“But there’s never been any trouble at Powderhorn.” Derrick said.
“Never say never,” his father replied. “We’ll have our own cookout. You can see the fireworks from the porch.”
Derrick wanted to argue, but something in his father’s tone said the decision was final. So on the fourth while half the neighborhood headed to Powderhorn, Derrick helped his father set up the grill in the backyard. His mother made potato salad, and his sisters ran through the sprinkler, shrieking when the cold water hit them.
It wasn’t bad. The food was good, the air smelled like charcoal and summer, and you could hear the faint sound of music coming from down the street.
But it wasn’t Powderhorn.
As the sky darkened, small bursts of light popped here and there-neighbors lighting sparklers, and firecrackers going off down the block. Farther off, above the trees, Derrick saw the first big boom from Powderhorn-huge, bright, and filling the sky for a moment before fading into smoke.
His heart tugged a little. He wondered what it was like to be down there. Thousands of people, with blankets laid out across the grass. Somewhere in the crowd, he knew were, Tony, Marcus, Leon, Reggie, Kim, Nina, and Donna, with their families. He wished he could be there.
Later that night, after the grill was cold, and the girls were half asleep on the couch, the phone rang. His mother answered in the kitchen. Her voice was soft at first, then sharper. “What?….Is everyone alright?….Lord, have mercy.”
She came back into the living room, face tight.
“What happened?” Derricks father asked.
“Powderhorn,” she said . “They said there was…a disturbance. A bunch of fights, and then the police moved in. Some people got arrested, and some kids got caught up in the action.”
Derrick’s chest clenched.
On the late news, the anchor talked about it briefly.
“A racial disturbance at Powderhorn Park disrupted Fourth of July festivities this evening…”
He mentioned scuffles, bottles thrown, a clash between Black teens and police near the edge of the crowd. No deaths. Some injuries. Arrests. The camera showed a few shaky shots; people running, police pushing through the crowd, fireworks still popping overhead like nothing was wrong.
“They always make it sound like we started it,” Derrick’s mother muttered.
His father nodded slowly. “Same story, different year.”
Derrick was on the front steps early the next morning. The sun was barely up when Tony and Marcus came up to the house. He went down to meet them.
“Man,” Tony said. “You missed it. Last night was crazy!”
Marcus sat down on the steps. “Yeah. You missed it.”
“What happened.” Derrick asked.
They took turns telling it, voices overlapping, the story spilling out in pieces.
“It started out same as always.” Tony said. “Music playing, kids running around, families having picnics. The usual stuff.”
“The fireworks were supposed to start at ten.” Marcus added. “The whole place was packed. Next thing you know, everything is going crazy. People start fighting, throwing bottles, and stuff like that. Everybody starts running. Police come running in and start beating and arresting people. Of course, you know who they were arresting.”
“I saw them throw Jackie’s brother to the ground, and he wasn’t even doing anything. Tony stated.
“I don’t even know what set everything off.” Marcus said.
Derrick remembered what his father said. “My dad said when you have that many together, sometimes all it takes is for somebody to do one stupid thing.”
Later that afternoon, they walked down 4th Avenue together. The road crew was gone for the day, but the street was still torn open, the old streetcar tracks being exposed like scars.
They stopped and looked at the metal tracks again.
“Man. It feels like everything’s getting dug up.” Derrick said quietly. “Tracks, streets, parades, fireworks….all of it.”
“Tony kicked a small rock into the trench. “Yeah, but they’ll put the street back together, and next year, people will probably be back at Powderhorn again.”
“Acting like nothing ever happened.” Marcus said.
Leon joined them halfway through the walk, hands in his pockets.
“My uncle says that’s how it is. Stuff happens. They call it a disturbance and move on. We’re the ones who remember.”
Derrick thought about the history under his feet-the old streetcars that once rolled down 4th Avenue, the Black families who made the Southside home, the fireworks over Powderhorn Park.
He looked at his friends.
“I’m glad y’all okay,” he said.
“We stay okay.” Tony joked.
They all laughed-because even after everything, they still could.
Summer moved on.
Old tracks would be removed. New pavement would go down. Powderhorn would host more picnics and fireworks. And the kids in the neighborhood, including Derrick and his friends, would keep living, watching, and remembering, because even when the world tried to tear things up, they were still there. Still riding, still listening, still telling stories.
