College Essay (A Tribute to My Father).

I was digging through some old emails that were starred on gmail. It's weird - even though I star these emails, I never go back to look at them until it's kind of too late. Anyway, this was an email I sent to an old teacher for revision. It is the only college essay I ever wrote...

To My Father.

-----------I think it was the nightmares that did it for me. The slurred battle cries that pierced though the black silence, the sudden, half-awakened jerks in the middle of the night, and the familiar wide-eyed glare that seemed always to search for something that was not there.

I used to lie in bed wondering if I was the only creature awake, the only one that witnessed the horrors of this epic battle. But I wasn't. Sure enough, my mother would start. A gentle, meek spirit of a woman, and yet possessing a fierce will, she would grab a hold of his wrists and shake him violently. "The children!" she would whisper hoarsely into the night, with quick eyes that glanced sharply around the room for any signs of movement from the four of us.

I did not stir. Nor did my three brothers, sound asleep in their own sweet slumbers. And so soon was my father, who never failed to give his one last battle cry, the mightiest of them all, before returning to the comatose sleep that guarded him against consciousness and the memories of jungles and bloodshed.

I did not feel sorry for him, then, eight years old. In fact, I almost thought it was funny, in the perverse innocence of a child, thinking her father was putting on a show for her. In the mornings, I contemplated slapping him on the back, and saying, "That was a good show last night, Father! You were brave and powerful."

And at that age, my father was a giant to me. He had good defined features that spoke of strength and honor and he still retained that tall, bulky, muscular physique, a relic of his service in the South Vietnamese Army.

Now, he is much stouter than he used to be complete with a seemingly ever-growing stomach. The sharp lines in his face have long since faded and been replaced with the wrinkles of time and old age.

But despite his failing image, I would say my father is so much more a hero to me now than ever before. My father, who, after years of failure, finally brought our family from Vietnam to America, who worked in the mornings at a sweatshop factory and went to school during the nights to learn English, who taught my brothers and me how to climb trees and ride bicycles – he taught us how to make the best lemonade with all the lemons that life could throw at us.

This is the person that has influenced me in every way possible.

And I would like to say to him one day, "That was a good show, Father. Now it is my turn to be in the spotlight." And I will show him that I can be a soldier as well.

Recently, his episodes have become less frequent, the nights less turbulent. Even so, I don't focus so much on the nightmares anymore. For me, I think the dreams will do just fine.-------------



Thanks Dad. I know I haven't been much of a soldier recently, but I want you to know that you are still my commander in chief.