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My Dad, America's Hero

Dad, pa, daddy, pops none of those names really suit my father his name should be “American Hero.” My dad was never rich as a kid, but that’s not to say he was poor. He wasn’t a little devil, but if you asked my grandmother she’d say he wasn’t an angel. My dad wasn’t a bully, but he knew how to stick up for himself, his family, his country, and that is what I admire about him. Being in the United States Army National Guard my dad has seen stuff that he prays most of us will never have to. If you asked he’d tell you he does his job so that others don’t have to. As a third grader my dad was in Bosnia, which was the only deployment we thought he’d ever get. On Tuesday, September 11, 2001 the world, our world, changed drastically. As a seventh grader my dad was in Iraq, I still couldn’t really grasp the concept of what was happening. As a seventh grader I wasn’t sure what being in a war meant, but my dad did. When he came back he never showed signs of going to war, he never really talked about it, but I know things happened while he was there. I know that he is glad that he could go in place of any of our other family members, and I am more than grateful that he made that sacrifice. But his story doesn’t stop in Iraq; as a freshman in high school my dad was in Afghanistan on is third deployment of my life. By then I knew what was going on in the world, and I understood the danger that my dad was putting himself in. He volunteered for that deployment; no one forced him to go. At the time I couldn’t understand why he’d do that, to an extent I regretted not trying to make him stay. While he was there I read his journal from Bosnia, I sat on my bed and read the words he wrote on 9-11-01. The point he made was that my life would be forever different from the life he lived as a child. His numerous e-mails would come in; displaying pictures of the life he lived while in Afghanistan. I tried to imagine the things surrounding him. The blistering hot summer, the arctic mountain winters, the fine sand being blasted into his eyes, the cold looks of the natives who didn’t want him there, the laughter of the village children who didn’t even know what they were missing out on. Leaving his family was sacrifice enough, helping families in Afghanistan have a better life was an act much bigger than him. Though I’m glad my dad loves his job, I’ve never been as happy as when my dad stepped foot off the plane back home in the States. I hope he realizes how proud I am, and how proud our country is of him and his fellow military members. His influence on the world has inspired me to follow in his footsteps, to serve my country, but more importantly to make half of the impact on the world that he has. My dad, America’s hero.




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