Hartland. Wisconsin. Midwest. America. Home. There is nothing like going to sleep in my own house, tucked up in my own bed. My eyes close slowly until I am fast asleep with no worries crossing my mind. I feel safe. Nothing bad can happen. In a world of hatred and fear, how can I feel so safe?
An employee to some. A dad to a others. A hero to me. Soldiers sacrifice their lives to protect our country. In 1942, Hjalmar Johansson enlisted in the Army. He manned the front gunner on an airship that got hit by an anti aircraft missile. His team was captured by the Germans and thrown in a gruesome concentration camp. He watched as two of his friends were beaten for trying to escape. He starved, froze and was abused physically and mentally—but through his honor and strength, he did not disclose any information and made it home to his family. A true hero. A true Patriot.
An outsider to some. Worthless to others. Oma and Opa to me. My grandparents abandoned their families and jobs to embark on a journey to new hope. They strove to become part of the melting pot. Knowing little about America, they searched for jobs and settled in a quiet neighborhood—and since that day, the American flag has never stopped waving in front of their house. Born an outsider. Died a Patriot.
A wasteland to some. Freedom to others. Home to me. A patriot is someone who loves our country unconditionally. Patriotism is often said without people thinking about the true meaning behind it. They do not think about the sacrifices of losing limbs, losing family members or losing hope. But all these sacrifices show how much love these soldiers have for our country.
My eyes close slowly until I am fast asleep because I know, America is home of the patriots.