What's the Fourth of July Mean at the Muckleshoot Fireworks Mall? Family, Freedom, and Right to 'Blow Stuff Up'

Each Fourth of July, a gravel lot on the Muckleshoot Indian Reservation becomes both a bazaar and a blast zone. Governed by Muckleshoot Tribal Code, the Fireworks Mall flaunts what would be felony conduct elsewhere in Washington: the open sale and ignition of high-powered aerial explosives.

There's a designated launch zone with rules to follow, but no safety briefings — just hands and wagons full of artillery shells, debris underfoot, and fuses lit with lighters held low. Vendors sell explosives. Shoppers arrive from nearby suburbs where fireworks are banned. Families, friends, and sellers merge into a ritual that's as much about proximity and participation as it is about spectacle.

As one Muckleshoot member and vendor says, "You know, with celebrating the holiday, it's about the kids. If the kids are happy, we're happy."

Media coverage tends to focus on legality, sovereignty, or public safety. But on the ground, the event defies easy framing. It's part capitalism, part nostalgia. What passes for patriotism here erupts in the gravel and dust at your feet.

One attendee puts it bluntly: "Fuck whoever is the president — we're gonna blow stuff up."

Another lights shells in honor of his late uncle. "He loved this," says Ian R. of Auburn. "I like to do it up for him."

The night moves in waves. Kids run through smoke. Medics stand by. People press forward, then pull back, depending on where the next blast comes from. At a time when democracy feels abstract or out of reach, this version of freedom is immediate — and it comes in a cardboard box.

This photo essay captures the smoke trail of a holiday nobody's in charge of — just fireworks, fumes, and the ways Americans take freedom into our own hands.

As golden-hour light fades, shoppers move between plywood stands and shipping containers, loading up on fireworks. Smoke hangs low over the gravel as early blasts crack in the distance — a preview of the chaos to come.

At left, Joshua B. of Auburn, dressed as the Joker, frames the Fourth as both tradition and a flex. "You've gotta spend $2,000 to $3,000 to really compete here," he says. "This year was bad — I only did about $1,500." As a kid, he recalls, "Our Fourth of July was the Fifth. We'd go through the field and pick up the stuff that didn't go off." At right, Luke M. of Muckleshoot, a vendor in a Super Mario costume, ties the ritual to something older. "I just like the smell of fireworks. I'm a pyro," he says. "After everything we've been through as a nation, it's nice we can still come together over something that happened a long time ago — to celebrate our freedom. They dumped the tea. What better way to honor that than by blowing stuff up?"

At left, J. Woods of Auburn, a longtime vendor at the Fireworks Mall, stands beside a canister labeled "Trump Returns" — one of dozens of politically branded fireworks on display. "It's just freedom, man," he says. At right, a woman smiles while holding a box marked "America First."

Bursts from fireworks light up a field as people stand or sit in folding chairs. "The Fourth of July ain't about America," says Lee M. of Seattle, who watches with loved ones. "It's about family."

Razi S. of Sumner smiles from her father's arms as fireworks crack overhead. Asked what the Fourth of July means to her, she replies: "Sparkly and colorful. Beautiful."

At left, two women pose for the camera as a firework explodes just behind them. At right, Big Al of Seattle wears an American flag T-shirt and reflects on the day's meaning. "Freedom, man! Keep it lit," he says. "It's the one day everyone's kicking it and having fun, and not letting that political shit get to us."

Another attendee adds: "If you don't like it, get the fuck out."

At left, a man in a Captain America T-shirt sits in a wheelchair with a box of fireworks on his lap. At right, Margarita Mendoza of Federal Way lifts a flaming artillery shell overhead. Asked how she feels about celebrating the Fourth under the current administration, she says, "We're called to love foreigners and strangers as our own, because we were once foreigners and strangers in the land of Egypt."

As dusk settles over the gravel field, the younger generation takes the reins, dodging sparks, lighting fuses, and learning by fire.

The show is in everyone's hands — sometimes literally. One attendee lights a firework by hand and hurls it upward, shielding his ears as it detonates in front of him.

"Being prior military, the Fourth of July means we get to do something that reflects our freedom," says Dennis H. of Kent. "We're not a democracy. We're a constitutional republic. Democracies turn into democratic socialist governments like Venezuela."

Two young men crouch beneath a cardboard shield as golden sparks fall overhead. "I just love the Fourth of July," says A.J. of Auburn, at right. "It's not about the actual holiday itself — it's just about being with your people and having fun."

Green and red streaks explode, lighting the blast field like a battlefield. "Freedom is the only thing you gotta focus on," says Zavian Ambriz of Des Moines, wearing an American flag tank top. "We're still freer than every other country, so we should take pride in that. I have way more privilege than I would in a third-world country."

At left, Dennis H. scorches his hand mid-launch when a shell misfires. On standby nearby, EMTs from the Valley Regional Fire Authority — Tyler F., Erik P., Josh R., and Gary B. — pose beside their rig. "A few years ago, I saw a guy get hit in the stomach with a mortar — his intestines were coming out," says Josh R. Another EMT notes that most injuries involve fingers and hands, though occasionally they respond to more severe incidents. "This year, we've only seen one fireworks-related injury."

Bursts crack overhead and scatter across the gravel. Friends duck and weave through the chaos, grinning and flinching in equal measure.

As the night winds down, people stand transfixed before a final bloom of fire and smoke. The ground is littered with spent shells and shredded cardboard.

Nate Gowdy, whose political photography appears in Mother Jones and Rolling Stone, among others, published the sole book of photojournalism about the Jan. 6 attack on the U.S. Capitol. He's also known locally for his "American Superhero" portrait series and his work celebrating Seattle's LGBTQIA+ communities.

Carrie Schreck is a photographer, filmmaker, and essayist with a focus on far-right extremism. Her work has been featured in The New Yorker and CNN.