Why I Hate Fireworks
“Hate” is a strong word. I reserve it for things that truly deserve it. And fireworks, usually, don’t. They’re supposed to be fun, brief bursts of joy — dazzling patterns in the sky, a reminder that life can be bright and fleeting. Who doesn’t like fireworks?
Well, me.
When I was teaching in China, I lived on the 18th floor of a high-rise overlooking a sea of concrete. Out in the distance was a scrubby patch of dirt — destined, no doubt, for another forest of towers. For now, it was empty except for a hut.
Every night — and I mean every single night — someone lit off commercial-grade fireworks from that scrubland. Not the backyard kind, but professional real-estate-development fireworks. You know: the kind that rise silently, then explode in glittering spheres 180 feet in the air. Which, coincidentally, is exactly 18th-floor height. Exactly eye-line. Exactly ear-level.
Some nights it lasted half an hour. Some nights, three hours. For a whole year.
Imagine it: windows rattling, thin curtains glowing, ears ringing while you’re trying to prepare lessons or just get some sleep. Outside, car alarms and scooter alarms would add their canned chirps and flashing lights to the chaos. It wasn’t just noise. It was a siege.
And the maddening part? No construction ever happened. Nothing. Just nightly detonations into the void, as if the fireworks were the project.
Now, sure, fireworks are history’s great Chinese export — right up there with paper, printing, and gunpowder. They even led (indirectly) to the Second Amendment. But when you’re living inside an endless festival of noise pollution, history doesn’t help.
So yes. That’s why I hate fireworks. Not because they don’t inspire wonder — they can. But because for one long year, they stole my silence.
“All flowers look like fireworks.”
— G.K. Chesterton
All true. But sometimes, you’d rather just smell the flowers.
Hate is a strong word. I reserve it for things I truly do hate or have an intense or passionate dislike for. And fireworks are usually fun for all. Their dizzying electrical performances are usually never long enough! Who doesn't like fireworks?
But then I was teaching in China, staying in a room on the 18th floor.
I was surrounded by a sea of concrete buildings, except for a huge patch of scrubland a kilometer away. No work had yet to be done. I could only see a hut. The rest was just dirt. It was going to be a forest of more new highrise buildings.
I'm captivated by you, baby, like a fireworks show.”
— Taylor Swift, “Sparks Fly
Every single night for a year - they blasted fireworks off. The kind that shoots silently up 180 feet and explodes in a variety of colors and sharp noises. Professional Real Estate Grade pyrotechnics. From the country that brought you gunpowder and all the positive inventions that have led to the Second Amendment.
Some nights it would be half an hour, and some nights, it went on for three hours. No work ever got done on the property. Someone just routinely spent through their fireworks budget.
But the WORST part about the hardcore commercial fireworks is that they explode at the 18th-floor level, 180 feet up, right in my eye-line. Right at the elevation of my ears. From dusk until whenever they ran out of fireworks, the noise was incessant.
I was rattled for over a year, every night. It shook the windows and shone through the thin drapes.
I don't see the point in Halloween firecrackers except to risk fingers.
"All flowers look like fireworks." — Gilbert K. Chesterton
BANG! BANG! POP! ...BANG! BANG...BANG! POP! BANG!
And fireworks set off car and scooter alarms. So, the city is alive with canned chirps and flashing headlights.
This noise and light pollution is acceptable in China, even expected and admired. The Chinese love the sounds of car alarms and intermittent fireworks.
That is why I hate fireworks.
