Patriotic, pt. 1

Before you start to believe that President Obama is the main reason why I feel patriotic, let me back up a little bit and tell you where it started. You see, this summer, I lost my grandfather to cancer. It was a hard hit...A VERY hard hit, but in his passing so many memories of him came to mind. He was a WWII Vet who was very proud of his American heritage. I remember in the 6th grade we had to do a project on interviewing a WWII Vet and I was so afraid because I thought that I didn't have one. I thought that because I was black there couldn't be a member in my family who fought in that war. I came home and told my mom that my teacher said that I should go to a nursing home and interview someone there. My mother told me that my grandfather and great uncle were both Vets and that they both served in that war. All it meant in the past was a relief because I didn't want to go and interview strange old people...Hey, I was in the 6th grade, sue me...But now I can see the significance of that event in my life.

So with his passing, my brother, who was also in the military, got my grandfather a military burial. Since they were both in the Navy, my brother got to accept my grandfather's flag. I had never seen a military burial in person, I only seen them on t.v. but it was more moving in person. It even had a bugle player.

She played, we huddled together for warmth, and all I could do was think and hug my other brother close because he was in tears. I mean, for years I refused to salute the flag, say the Pledge of Allegiance, or even stand during the National Anthem. I was upset with this country and with "W" stealing the office TWICE, I was sick and tired of being American although I knew that no one else would take me and (I know I'm going to make some enemies by saying this):

I am NOT African!

Sorry, but I look down at my light skin, I listen to stories told by my grandmother and remember stories told by my grandfather. I am a mix bag of African, Indian, Chinese, European, and whatever else is on the side of my sperm donator (Some of you may call that person your father, but believe me, this guy doesn't deserve that respect), but that just makes me an American. Hence the reason why I dropped the "African" a long time ago (but more on that in part 2).

On that day in October, we watched as the two officers of the Navy folded up the American flag that was drapped over my grandfather's coffin. It wasn't an African flag...Nor was it both flags, no, it was the flag of the country that he put his life on the line to protect. I felt so proud watching it. I felt so grounded for some reason. I didn't feel different from other Americans. In some ways, it solidified my connection to this country and other proud Americans. Now, let's go to another country and make them hate us! No, just kidding. lol

When all was said and done, when the flag was folded up, when the tears stopped falling, when the fact that it was chilly outside left our minds, it was just us staring at that coffin and watching the woman walk over to my brother in slow motion. She stood in front of him, she saluted him, he later told us that he couldn't return the salute because Navy protocol states that if you aren't in your uniform, you can't return the salute. She whispered some words to him, we couldn't hear it, I couldn't see her lips because her hand was covering it. All I know is Donnell looked serious. He held the flag close to his heart and I felt my eyes water up, just like they are right now. How I managed to snap a clear picture, I don't know. I guess I'm just an awesome photographer!

It was there when I realized that sometimes being proud of who you are isn't necessarily about what's going on at the present. It can be about the past and those who gave their lives for your country. It can be about the survivors who share stories with their children/grandchildren. They saw horrors that we couldn't imagine. Sights that would make all the gore that we watch in horror movies become obsolete. My grandfather was on a ship that swept for mines. He was the only black man on the ship and he says that he didn't notice because everyone treated him with respect. Fifteen men on his ship died one day when one of the mines went off but he and the rest of the survivors were picked up by another ship. If he was one of the 15, who knows what would have happened to me.

It's weird how events in our lives can cause us to change how we think and feel. All I know is I miss him. I miss him a lot. He was the only grandfather that I had and now I have none. Out of respect and love for him, I will have pride in my country, not to the point where I become unbearable to non-Americans, but there is nothing wrong with some pride, ya dig? I love him...I miss him...I doubt I will ever get over that.


Stay tuned for part 2!

Love, Peace, and Hair Grease!