This is difficult

Three events that are hard for me to write about have to be the events that mainly deal with my feelings because feelings are so personal and private. I can't always be so open about my deep thoughts and emotions about certain things. It may seem like I am blabbing on about nothing, and that is only because I can't think of three events that are difficult to write about, yet still write about. You are going to have to excuse me for not being so descriptive in this post.
One thing I always had a hard time writing about in the past was about the death of my grandfather, but I noticed that writing about it helped me emotionally. It helped me mature and realize that death is only part of life. Death may seem difficult to talk about, but as a growing Christian, I learned not to be afraid of dying. So, I wrote about the death of my grandfather in the prior blog, and it made me realize how much I appreciated him and still do.
Another difficult event would be when I found out my cousin got shot in a drive-by shooting in Chicago that he had nothing to do with. I didn't know about it until later; my family was hiding it from everyone. Finding out so late bothered me so much. But my cousin is okay now. I guess that is all that matters.
The last event I can briefly write about is when my mom and my youngest sister got in a bad accident on the highway. My mom somehow managed to get the car to make a 360 a couple of times on the highway and then fall right in a ditch. They walked away with no scratches; the cop was amazed and he even forgot to write an actual report. When my sister remembers it, she cries. I hate knowing that I wasn't there for them.

Fallen Hero

His persona was definitely one of a kind. One that begged for respect without him asking for it. He was down to earth, light-hearted, yet so powerful and had full authority. My grandfather was a man of word, of honor, and of power always putting his family back in order. He would not tolerate my aunt being mad at my mother, my uncle upset at grandmother, my cousin upset at one my aunts, or my father mad at my mother. If someone was upset, God forbid, he would force them to reconcile. I loved that about him. He was the glue that kept our family together. He brought us together for every holiday and for every occasion he can possibly come up with.

The last time he had authority over us was February 25^th, 2000. We all gathered at the Assyrian Church of the East for his funeral, my first funeral experience. And mind you, I didn’t know they actually do a viewing before all the praying starts. So, there I was walking behind my brother down the church aisle the whole time. Everyone was already sitting, so I kept my head down. I felt everyone’s eyes watching me as their heads turned toward me with every step I took. I tried to block out the wailing sounds of my family members, but I failed. My brother finally made a left to have a seat in one of the pews. I looked up and to my shock, I saw the hero of the family lying lifeless in his coffin. My whole body shivered.

I couldn’t bear looking at him. He was no longer smiling with his missing front tooth showing. The way he used to laugh kept running through my head. My fallen hero was no longer going to be sitting in his regular chair for Thanksgiving dinner, or Christmas. He was no longer going to make me laugh. He was no longer going to call us to come over, and end up watching one of his Clint Eastwood movies or Lion King for the one hundredth time. He wasn’t going to be there for my 13^th birthday. My memories of him still live and his traditions have not subsided.

East to West

January 21, 2009
My dad is a translator working overseas for the American military. For six months I have not seen him. He writes me emails to explain the dire situation in Iraq. He has been staying at some kind of American base, but he really can't tell me too much information; he is not allowed to he says. He seems happy working there, but I sense through his writing that he misses us. I try to fight back my tears when I read his sweet emails telling me to take care of mom and to tell my sisters to do good in school.

He said he would call today, but I have been patiently waiting and mom keeps checking if our phone is working properly. I always wonder what Iraq is like. I always hear that it is not too safe over there, but I am sure it is like America in so many ways. It has to be. I am going to have to ask dad to give me a good description and to take pictures when he has some free time.

January 22, 2009
Dad finally called this morning before I headed out to my boring job. I had a good chat with him before I started passing the phone down to my mom and my other siblings. We talked about school, my job, and I asked him to send me an email with some pictures. After work today I checked my email, he had sent me five pictures. One picture was of him and the people he works with in their uniform. Other pictures were of the churches or the buildings that were recently bombed by terrorists. A feeling of fear for my dad engulfed me as tears streamed down my eyes. The message on the bottom said:
Sweetie, if you are trying to figure out if Iraq and America are similar, they are as similar as they are different. New York isn't exactly California, but still considered America. Mid East isn't exactly the West, but still considered a region containing humanity.
Love, Dad