Forget Me Not :: Free Essays Online

Forget Me Not Freedom is not free. These powerful terminology resound in my mind as I admire the Korean War Memorial at the National Mall. Surrounded by several(prenominal) life size statues of soldiers in action I feel an remaining sensation. I am either overwhelmed by emotion or all told drained of it I cannot tell which. Staring into the smoky colored granite I see mavin thousand faces glaring back at me. At one instance I see the faces of thousands of soldiers faces reflected back to me. Seconds later, I state I can see the faces of one thousand bury children spirit deep into my eyes. These children of the war silently scream of one thousand unalike stories that have been forgotten or brushed aside for decades now. Abruptly, the children vanish and erstwhile again I see the soldiers, only now they are indignant. They sputter at me with strong voices, No, this was our forgotten war. We are the truly forgotten However, I disagree. These soldiers, now veterans, have earned this monument and have had their voices and stories heard. Yet, these children of the war, both Korean and Ameriasian, who grew up in Koreas post war era of the 50s and 60s are the truly forgotten. They are forgotten because virtually no one realizes what their lives were like growing up hence, no one recognizes the hardships and battles that many of these children faced. To fully understand these forgotten children of the war one must first listen to their story. The Knife It is late one sunshine afternoon and Mrs. Sook Kyung Song is in the kitchen busily preparing dinner for her family. Mrs. Song scans the reappearance for her favorite injure and finds it oddly misplaced in a aspect among several newer ones. Her favorite knife lies dully amidst a gleaming Cutco collection like a fallen star among blazing planets. Mrs. Song rescues her knife from the others and course grasps the handle like she has countless times before. The knife naturally molds to her han d, like an extension of her body. Slowly beginning to chop, she finds comfort in the knife, on with a sense of reassurance and humility that she has carried all of her life. Watching my mothers careful movements, I hesitate for a moment before outpouring her with questions.