Germany is efficient. France is flirtatious. Canada apologizes for being in your way, even though I don’t know anyone on their way to the North Pole other than Will Steiger. But America? If you want to understand America, skip the textbooks or history lessons. At a distance, just observe the month of July.

July is the most American month. July is America at full volume. July is America squared. July is America in its purest form: sweaty, boastful, overfed, underhydrated, and deeply proud. Because America’s greatest superpower is self-confidence. The unwavering belief that this is the greatest nation on earth, especially holding a corn dog in one hand and a roman candle in the other.

July is the hottest month of the year. So what do Americans do? Americans make it hotter. In America, July is the season to grill. Yes, America spends the hottest month of the year in 90-plus-degree Fahrenheit heat and asks each other, “Hot enough for you?”

Any other country would seek a cool place in the shade. But not America. America observes proudly, “If you can’t stand the heat—then get out of the kitchen!” America will not be bothered by the fact that they are not in the kitchen when making this observation.

For America, the point doesn’t depend on accuracy. For America, the point is the point.

You might think America cools down after the sun has done its stuff and descended past the horizon. Not America. Not today. After dark in July in America, America builds a fire. America builds campfires. Mostly America builds campfires to melt marshmallows for s’mores for dessert. But America also builds campfires because America likes it hot. And fire is hot.

After the campfire’s died down, America builds a bonfire. Bonfires are like campfires but better for dancing around. Plus, it’s hard to make a s’more over a three-story flame.

Other countries might cool off after the baking and grilling and fires, but in America, that’s when we lean into a little recreation-slash-entertainment that’s also hot. Yes, that’s when we pull out the fireworks.

For some reason, in July, America really likes fireworks.

Other countries just feel the heat—we want to watch it explode. We want it to explode in red, white, and blue and say, “Ah, freedom.” Then we set the fireworks to music. The 1812 Overture, to be exact. And in America, we wave our flags with pride.

Now, other countries might point out that fireworks were invented in China, the 1812 Overture is a Russian victory march about beating the French, and the flags we’re waving were made in—well, China again—but to that we say: Shhh. It’s starting.

Because in that moment, while our lawn chairs creak, the music will swell and the sky will explode. This is what it means to be American.

America measures things with the imperialist system. America is a democracy with the small asterisk that is the electoral college. And America is the only country that holds a sporting event called “The World Series” without bothering to include or even invite participants from any other part of the world.

Other countries might like it hot. In America, we like everything crazy, stupid, dangerously hot. Hot dogs. Hot pants. Hot tubs. Hot streaks. Hot rods. Hot pockets. Hot sauce. Hot heads. And, somehow, cornhole.

Yes, nothing says America like a hot take, filled with hot air, shouted into the void that is in July.