Happy birthday, dear adoptive country. You are loved.
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Right now, as Monsieur Meow reads Herr Meow a little book about America's birthday ("Daddy, what is "tax"?), and the sirens wail throughout the city, rescuing the hapless and the possibly burned, and our local PBS affiliate gets cheesy with the background music while the sky lights up my screen periodically from all the fireworks displays around, I am happy.
Happy, because birthdays are happy (even mine, exactly two months away).
Happy, because if some fireworks are good, then MORE fireworks are just awesome.
Happy, because it was a lovely, cool, wonderful day today.
Happy, because I no longer have a raging headache.
Happy, because some gentlemen some time ago decided that stupid over-taxation from far away reeeeeeally sucked.
Happy, because this truly is the best country in the world, and there is no other place I would be as honored or happy to call my home.
I love you, United States of America, from California to the New York island.
A Daily Dose of Zen Sarcasm! 
Around these parts, I feel like a recent immigrant. Families in this area have lived in this very county – let alone the country – for 14, 15, 16 generations.
I am a third (or fourth, depending on which side of the family is counting) generation American.
Since you are a FIRST gen, let me say to you as a comparative old-timer, “We’re very happy to have you here!”