Forget Me Not :: Free Essays Online

Forget Me not Freedom is not free. These powerful words resound in my in assortect as I admire the Korean War Memorial at the National Mall. Surrounded by several life size statues of soldiers in action I feel an odd sensation. I am all overwhelmed by emotion or completely drained of it I cannot tell which. Staring into the smoky colored granite I clear unrivalled grounds faces glaring back at me. At one instance I translate the faces of thousands of soldiers faces reflected back to me. Seconds later, I swear I can see the faces of one thousand forget children looking deep into my eyes. These children of the war silently scream of one thousand different stories that have been forgotten or brushed aside for decades now. Abruptly, the children vanish and once again I see the soldiers, only now they are indignant. They bark at me with strong voices, No, this was our forgotten war. We are the truly forgotten However, I disagree. These soldiers, now veterans, have pul l in 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 alike 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 harken to their story. The Knife It is late one Sunday afternoon and Mrs. Sook Kyung Song is in the kitchen busily preparing dinner for her family. Mrs. Song scans the counter for her favorite dig and finds it particularly misplaced in a case among several newer ones. Her favorite knife lies dully amidst a gleaming Cutco collection like a move star among blazing planets. Mrs. Song rescues her knife from the others and naturally grasps the handle like she has countless times before. The knife naturally molds to her hand, like a n extension of her body. soft beginning to chop, she finds comfort in the knife, along with a sense of reassurance and humbleness that she has carried all of her life. Watching my mothers careful movements, I hesitate for a moment before bombing her with questions.