the price of freedom

When I was much younger, and still not
an American citizen, we had yearly
veteran’s day assemblies at school.
I made sure to sing loudly and with
enthusiasm when we sang the patriotic
songs extolling the glorious US of A,
honoring the sacrifice the veterans had made.
I felt like I had something to prove, to show
that I, too, belonged here.

The irony was completely lost on me.

Years later, I had earned my citizenship
but had also seen and read too much,
and the illusion of our brave veterans
fighting for our freedom had been shattered
in my mind.

At our high school’s veteran’s day event,
they invited a Vietnam veteran to speak.
He was old, white, and uniformed, just as I had imagined.
“Many people ask me about my service,” he began,
“about what my sacrifice means to me.”
“But I think what it really was about
was defending our freedom.”
Beaming with pride, he gazed at the hundreds
of onlooking students in the bleachers.

At that moment, a sudden anger burst forth inside of me.
I wanted to shout, to cry out,
*“What was our freedom doing in Vietnam?”
“What did the Vietnamese do to us that made us
invade their country and massacre them?”
“Do you really believe the words
that are coming out of your mouth right now?” *

But I could not muster the courage.
I simply swallowed my rage,
swallowed the blood and tears of
all the innocent peoples in Asia who
had suffered at the hands
of this country, this country that I now called home.

I could only clap along with the others
as he finished his speech.