On Being Proud

On existence ProudMy bring forth, Ray XX, Jr., died when I was eighteen-calendar months-old. As I grew up, ein truth unrivaled from my mother to his childishness friends told me how wonderful he had been, exactly patronage their efforts, all I really knew well-nigh my father was that he was defunct–had been drained for a foresighted time–killed by a sniper in World struggle II. Neither his finish nor the war was an mild concept for a child to grasp, unless I had destiny of occasions to mull e truly(prenominal)place upon them both. Throughout my childhood and teenage long time, well- mean(a)ing gr haveups offered what they desired to be consolation. “I knew your father,” they’d say. “He was such a fine unseasoned man! You should be real towering of him.” The response they evaluate was obvious, and I very quickly learn to give it. I would nod, say “I am very tall,” smile grate adept, and accordingly b e silent. When I was five, such interchanges precisely read me un hold dearable. As I grew older, they made me angry; the thoughts which modify my head became more chaotic, more complex. What did it mean to be proud because someone was dead? What almost the jaundice I sometimes felt because my father “ check outed over” me from paradise while my friends’ fathers watched over them from the next dwell? Didn’t anyone bet that pride couldn’t compensate for his absence seizure?Even as I geek these words, sixty years later, I rule both wickedness and confusion.Eventually, I got to discern my father from study his garners. Like so many a(prenominal) others, he didn’t trust in war, but he went, nonetheless. His equaliser from overseas include great plans for our family’s future. He stock-still composed an eleven-page treatise upon the reforms he wanted for his children’s education. Each letter tried to soothe the fears of those he loved, to make them laugh. The laughter didn’t go away. Just forrader he was killed, a mere month after his twenty-eighth birthday, he despondently wondered what God could be thinking. Such sensitivity, kindness, and rightfulness at last made me very proud of the man. to a greater extent importantly, I believe I would stupefy got liked him, very much.Unfortunately, knowing that he died for democracy neer made judge his death easier. privation has always taken precedent over pride. No elaborateness about patriotism ever consoled me. I have neer believed it “sweet and decorous” to die for one’s coun elbow grease. The scoop up I have been able to do is understand wherefore he and interminable others felt and aspect that they must serving in wars which be non of their o wn making. On sunlight mornings, I watch “In Memoriam,” the subvention section of This calendar week because it pays homage non only to the storied but likewise the soldiers who have late died in Iraq. I’m not a spiritual person–a secondary entrust of my father’s death–so I come in’t solicit for them. My watching is a ritual natural from a life-time of grieving. I read the names to honor them, as others honored my father. I think about their children, especially the ones who atomic number 18 so raw that they will never have memories to comfort them. And I try–as soon enough unsuccessfully–to mold what eject be said to these children. We can’t and ask them to be proud of something that many of them, like me, will never fully comprehend.If you want to add a full essay, order it on our website:

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