Alicia Chan: "My Personal Day of Gratitude"
Although my personal day of gratitude did not take place on the true Independence Day, July 4, it was still a day that I recognized the brave men and women who have protected our nation overseas. Through that day, I learned that I can make any day Independence Day.
I was attending Girls State, a program sponsored by the American Legion Auxilary that teaches civic leadership and responsibility. One night we had a memorial service to honor soldiers missing in action and prisoners of wars and soldiers from the Vietnam War. All 600 of us poured into the auditorium, and what normally was a swirl of cheering and singing to Spice Girls or Britney Spears, was a somber procession of girls in black. Everything was black: the backdrop, the chairs, the flags, and the wooden podium even had a black skirt wrapped around it. Before the memorial service began, the coordinator told us that this would most likely be the most solemn event we will ever attend and that it required absolute silence. I was nervous about remaining completely still and quiet, but as the memorial service began, silence was not a problem. Fourteen girls slowly walked onto the stage, one by one, and after every one of them was seated, one would stand up, walk slowly to the black draped podium, and read a list of names. They all seemed to move at a speed slower than a sloth; so much slower that the sloth would probably have beaten all of them by a mile in a race. Watching each slow step was as painful as hearing each name of soldiers who were either prisoners of wars or missing in action. They deliberately pronounced each syllable separate, such as Da-vid John-son, Ar-my. It forced me to think about him: what was he like? Did he have siblings? Did he have a girlfriend or wife back home waiting for him? With each syllable these thoughts came into my head, and by the end, I could almost see a soldier’s eyes, filled with fear yet pride, staring back at mine.
Some of the girls came up to the black draped podium and read excerpts of letters, memoirs and poems from family members. I could picture a mother sitting at a desk, writing another letter to her son, knowing that it would probably be returned yet hoping he would be found and receive her letter. I could picture a girlfriend lying on her bed, writing in her diary: praying that God would return her boyfriend home safely and missing his smile and his strong arms wrapped around her. I could picture a little brother sitting at the kitchen table with crayons and construction paper, drawing a picture of his big brother in his soldier’s uniform and writing a poem on the side. He probably looked up to him as a role model and wanted to “lick the Commies” just like him, which most likely broke his mother’s heart and filled it with pride at the same time. Suddenly what the girls on the stage were reading were not just names, they were real people full of life, family, and love. They were not just words on a piece of paper, they were flesh and blood, men who laughed like I did and worried like I did. But there was one thing that separated me from them: courage.
Sitting in that black auditorium, I knew these soldiers had the courage to put their life on the line, unlike me. I could never leave my family like they did, knowing that it may be the last time I hug my mom, kiss my little sister goodbye, or tell my dad that I love him. For that, I felt guilty, for I knew these soldiers sacrificed for a higher purpose. They believed in the strength of our country, the power of our country, and the people of our country. They also understood that to keep our country thriving, it requires someone to make sacrifices to keep it that way and to protect America. They were willing to be the ones to make that sacrifice.
After each girl read a list of names and a few memoirs from the family, she would again walk slowly back to her seat and sit down where she would remain perfectly still for the rest of the memorial service. She would look frozen in time, just like the soldiers she had been talking about. They too were frozen in time, because they had made their mark on history. Their pride for their country and courage to sacrifice themselves were immortal, a standing monument to future generations.
One girl walked around a black draped table, making a full circle until she came back to candles in the center of the table. She lighted the one in the middle and sat back down. The candle stood tall and stalwart, with its flame burning bright. It was symbolic of the soldiers, who had stood firm and proud, believing in their noble cause. In all the darkness, they were the one shine of hope, and the darker the world is, even the smallest light brightens the whole world, just like that one candle brightened the entire auditorium.
The tears came in the middle of the service when someone began singing “I’m Proud to be an American.” All we heard was a voice; no one was on stage singing. Girls were turning their heads left and right, up and down, looking for the mysterious voice, but I remained still. I remained still not out of force or because the coordinator had told us to, but because I was so immersed into the words, lost in the music, and hypnotized by its emotion:
“If tomorrow all the things were gone I’d worked for all my life, And I had to start again with just my children and my wife.
I’d thank my lucky stars to be living here today,
‘Cause the flag still stands for freedom and they can’t take that away.”
Would I be thanking my lucky stars to just be living in America if I had lost everything? Maybe not now, I told myself, But one day I hope to. The tears kept coming when after the song, a few more girls came up to read more names. This time, the list seemed to be getting longer and longer, and I could feel myself getting a headache. It was just too much to handle; all these lost soldiers were crowding together in my mind that it became too much. My eyes began to dart back and forth, wondering if anyone around me felt the same. I saw some girls shift uncomfortably in their seat, some sniffle with tissues under their noses, and some staring straightforward, eyes wide. It looked like everyone felt the same as I did.
The memorial service ended, and without reminder, we all filed out silently. Beforehand, the coordinator had told us that we would walk back to our dorms in silence and in a long line, to commemorate the missing in action and prisoners of war. It was a black parade as we stepped outside: our completely monotone outfits mixing with the night sky. I began to imagine that this black parade was similar to a soldier’s march in the marshes of Vietnam…The click-clack of our high-heels were the squish-squash of a soldier’s boots sinking into the mud. The shivers from the cold night air and goose bumps from the memorial service was the cold permanently inside of the soldier from the constant torrential rain beating on his back. The silence of our walk back was the frightening silence of his march with his comrades, because sometimes the silence of the unknown can be scarier than the shrieking sounds of cannons and gunfire. The purses we carried were the letters from his mom in his pocket, the drawing his little brother gave to him in his knapsack and the picture of his girlfriend in his shirt pocket close to his heart. Our soft breathing was his heavy breathing, nervous of what would happen, if these were his last breaths. The rattle of our Girls State lanyards as we walked was the clink-clink of the rain droplets hitting his canteen and his metal dog tag swinging back and forth as he walked. The prayers we silently made to bless and comfort the families who have suffered were the prayers he whispered on his lips for God to do His will through him and for his country. Then we watched our dorms, and he reached his fate.
Still no one said anything as we entered the lobby and packed into the elevators. After the walk, I felt a connection with those missing in action and prisoners of wars from Vietnam. I was thankful that we could take time like this to realize how much our soldiers have sacrificed for our freedom. And although when we won our independence in 1783, July 4th was set aside as an official holiday and then in 1941 Congress made it a federal holiday, I learned that night that Independence Day does not have to be the only day to honor and celebrate our soldiers. John Adams said Independence Day should be “celebrated by pomp and parade, with shows, games, sports, guns, bells, bonfires and illuminations from one end of this continent to the other,” but I believe sometimes we can celebrate just by sitting in silence and remembering (Hernandez, Beverly. “Celebrate Independence Day”) .
When the elevator doors dinged open to our dorms, still no one talked; everyone was afraid to break the silence. I walked to my dorm just as I heard my cell phone ringing. It was my friend. I wiped the tears that were warm on my cheek and answered the phone.
“Hey, what did you do today?” She asked.
“You have no idea,” I answered. I could see a soldier’s eyes, filled with fear yet pride, staring back at mine.
Works Cited
Hernandez, Beverly. “Celebrate Independence Day.” Online posting. 27 Aug. 2008. http://homeschooling.about.com/cs/unitssubjhol/a/4thofjuly.htm
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