Happy Independence Day!

Fourth of July is one of my favorite holidays for many reasons. However, the most prominent reason is simply because we celebrate our nation's birthday. Regardless of this country's faults, I am very to be an American and to be identified as one. For me, this country represents freedom: freedom to be one's self, freedom to dream and to pursue that dream, freedom to think and to challenge, freedom to live. If and when you see a Veteran or a soldier, thank him.

I wrote the following story after an experience I had while living in Russia:

The ride seemed to last an eternity. As I stared out the window watching the countryside whiz by, my thoughts blended with the rhythm of the music filling the car. Occasionally, the woman in the front seat turned to smile at me. Gesticulating, nodding our heads at each other, and laughing had been our communication for the past month. She turned to me one last time and, with twinkling blue eyes, whispered, “Da Da, Aimee.” Her excitement made my nervous stomach do one more flip flop. We were going some place extra special that had required her to prep me every night for the past four weeks. After all, she was taking me to meet her father, a once fierce soldier of the Red Army.
When we arrived at the hovel he called home, the figure of a tall, well built man stopped chopping wood nearby and walked towards where I was standing next to the car. The closer he came to me, the more noticeable his old age became: a web of telling wrinkles occupied his face whereas a few wisps of grey hair occupied his head. He wore a black, faded sweatshirt with the hammer and sickle positioned in the center, which emphasized his political ideology. I felt as though Karl Marx himself were walking towards me. Then, before I knew it, he was standing right in front of me, casually studying me face. Quite surprised, I noticed his eyes were misty and his chin shook. Not sure of what to do, I extended my hand, a hand that would someday practice the essence of democracy, into the gentle grasp of hands that once fought to keep communism alive. I smiled into his eyes; he smiled into mine, and softly letting go of my grasp, he placed his callused hands on either side of my face and spoke in a mere whisper, “Americanski, Americanski.” His lips then softly pressed on my eyes, on my nose, and on his tears that trickled down my face. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into his tight embrace. The steady rhythm of his heart in my ear made me realize the beat belonged to a victim of political ideology. Still hugging each other, we knew Stalin, Khrushchev, and all the other deceased Russian leaders had not won. Two months after returning home, I received a letter from my host family, letting me know the tragic news. A few weeks after our meeting, the Soviet soldier had suffered a massive heart attack and died. However, they went on to explain that he had died happy and content. His life long dream had been fulfilled: he had met an American.