Ohana

"Ohana means family, family means no one gets left behind.”

You know who you are. And you know why this has to be said. You are sisters; You share blood, you share parents, you shared your childhood – the ups, the downs, and everything in between. You protected each other, you cared for each other, you covered each other’s asses when there was trouble brewing. You fought, forgot, and forgave. Where is that now? When it is most needed? There’s a Spanish Proverb that says that “an ounce of blood is worth more than a pound of friendship.” You were blessed with a large family, one that showed love, unbreakable, immeasurable, love, at every opportunity. And now, that love ends. You will let the unbreakable bond of family end here? You will disregard the love that your parents taught you because of a family spat? Now?

With the birth of a beautiful baby girl comes a need for love. I know for a fact that she well be given love, unconditional, life altering love from me. And as she grows, she will see the love that I hold for my family; a love that I would give my life to keep. But I cannot be the only one she sees this from. She must see that the love a family holds for its members is not exclusive, but open to all. Bickering between family members is to be expected, and I’m not saying everyone should get along one hundred percent of the time, but family spats cannot be allowed to interrupt and halt the love of a family.

With the anniversary of the passing of the greatest man we knew quickly approaching, you must remember the lessons he advocated. The single most important thing I’ve ever heard came from him. “family is everything. Nothing matters more, and nothing can ever take the place of a family’s love.” We all knew who said this, and I know that you respect him with everything you have. But you can’t continue to simply disregard this lesson. He loved everyone, regardless of screw-ups, mistakes, harsh words, or hasty and rash actions. He did not see mistakes; he saw only family; as we should.

I’m not taking sides; I know that’s not going to solve anything. But I know that there has been side taking, which reminds me of an elementary school fight. There have been words that should have never been spoken; there have been actions that should have never taken place. But it’s not too late. I’m not saying one person should apologize, I’m saying it should be mutual.

So now it’s coming from me, the nephew. Please, please, please put your differences aside. And leave them there. Especially with the upcoming Christmas season being based so much upon love. Please, if nothing else, for me, forgive and forget, as you did as children, and move on, living, and loving, setting amazing examples for your family as I know you can. I know this because I watched you as I grew, and decided that, like you, I would always love my family, and would do anything to keep them together.

“Love is not merely a word; it is much more than that. It is the fact that you would lay down your life for someone. For greater love hath no man than to lay down his life for his family. You know when you’re in love because you would readily stop a bullet, take a blow, or be harmed in any other way to keep the smallest of harm from coming to your family.”

I know you live by this, I just think someone needed to remind you of it.

On Turning 18

I turned 18 today. At midnight, November 29, 2009, I became a man. And it was exciting to say the least. At first. And then I realized the ugly truth. No more are the innocent days of my youth. I hold myself responsible now. I am in charge of me. No one else. And that thought is what scares me. Now, I answer to myself. I can make decisions. Ones that could affect my life forever. I can vote. I can enlist. I can smoke. I can gamble. I can buy aerosol whipped cream. I can take my life in my own hands. And that scares me.

My mom had me at an early age. And she did a damn good job of raising me. My grandma was there the whole time, encouraging me, coaching her, as her rock, her guardian angel. For the longer story click here. And I am ever grateful to both of them, among the many aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and great grandparents who made me who I am today. But now, it’s just me. And myself. And I. I am responsible for my actions, I am the man they raised, but I am living my life, without their wing over me anymore. I am under my own umbrella, and when I look up at it, I realize something. There’s nothing there. Nothing to protect me. I must fabricate my own protection, my own umbrella. I have the choice of size, of color, of texture, of thickness. I am making my own world. And that scares me.

I am the creator of my own realm. I make my choices, and am responsible for them. And that scares me. But one thing gives me solace. I know that no matter where I am, no matter where I go, and no matter what I do, I will always have my friends, but most importantly, my family. My family, whether living or passed away, will always look out for me; I have no doubt in this. And I know that all I need to do is call, and ask, and I will be surrounded by them, comforting me, encouraging me, being my rock, and my guardian angels. Because I live in a family that emphasizes love above all else. My great grandpa, possibly the greatest man I’ll ever know, told me something. “Life is never about the money that you have in the bank or your wallet. It’s about your family and the love you share. “ And by this set of standards, I’d say I’ve got it pretty good. And that comforts me.

Today, on November 29th, 2009, I became a man. I am responsible for myself. But I know that everything will be ok because I have the best thing anyone can ask for - the love of his family. And that comforts me.

American Heroes

If you had asked me on December 30^th of last year if heroes still existed, I would have answered, “no,” with absolute certainty. My great-grandfather, my hero, died that day and left behind a family who sometimes still has no idea how the world kept moving as though nothing had happened.

My grandfather served our country during World War II as a Ham Radio Operator in the Army. He traveled with generals and commanders, often in the heart of battles where Morse code was crucial to the execution of battle plans. As a young child, the stories that he shared with me were exciting and sparked my imagination. I was a soldier in his barn, tapping out messages to my comrades -- saving us from death -- awaiting my hero’s welcome as I arrived home.

As often happens, the magic of those fantasies faded as I grew, and transformed into darker things -- things that, when no longer shielded by the innocence of youth, were harder to conceive and difficult to think about.

My grandfather told of the men he traveled with, fought beside, befriended – the men that he watched lose limbs and eyes and sanity, and sometimes lives. Many of those men were 18 years of age, a milestone I will achieve in just a few weeks. And I often find myself thinking, “How did they do it?” Like so many of my peers, what I perceive as hardship and unjustness is nothing in the face of what those extraordinary men did. They went from farms and high schools, baseball fields and graduation parties into the eye of a raging storm, and they went without question and without protest, out of duty to their country. However, they didn’t go without fear. Perhaps Dan Rather put it best: “Courage is being afraid, but going on anyhow.”

It is often the war veterans that we describe as heroes; this is not without reason. The greatest of these heroes, though, are not those who come home, promising to stay in touch with their fellow soldiers as they return to the society they fought so hard to protect, but rather those who come home in silence, a flag draped over their coffins left to speak for them. It has been two years now since my cousin returned home a memory, a hero, -- but ultimately -- a casualty.

Along his final journey home, he was given the welcome of a hero. The roads were lined with people, holding flags, hands over their hearts — a woman in her garden, eyes to the sky; a man in his wheelchair along a dirt road, waving his tattered flag; an entire school system lining the streets, a silent tribute, immortalizing their hero, and thanking him for his service; a man, perhaps 30 years of age, covering his face in grief as Matt’s hearse passed by. His death marked the second time that he had been wounded in battle. The first injury he sustained was received under fire, as he provided cover for his fellow soldiers. He received the Silver Star and Purple Heart for his heroic actions that day, but when recovering from that injury, all he spoke of was being able to return to his brothers in arms. One of the things that Matt said remains with me still: “I’m not a hero. The real heroes are the guys that don’t make it—those that are killed in action.” Two years later, he was one of them.

Are there heroes left then, you ask? And my mind wanders back to that December day and those that followed, and my heart recalls the hurt and the sorrow and the pain—those moments trying to be brave and not cry, trying to forget the boy playing war hero in his grandfather’s barn. On that day, in those moments, I would have said “no, the heroes are gone.”

However, since then, a new light has dawned within me: it wasn’t how they died that made them heroes. It wasn’t the flags on their coffins or the salutes at their graves; it was the way that they lived their lives.

Do the heroes of my youth exist? No; they never did. Those heroes were without flaw, without fear, and had bravery that knew no bounds. They were immortal.

So again, you ask, do heroes still exist today? Wholeheartedly, yes. They are the soldiers in uniform, serving our country; they are the mothers and fathers who sacrifice each day to provide a good life for their children; they are teachers, nurses, doctors, volunteers; they are brothers and sisters and strangers that offer hope with a small act of kindness and no expectation of anything in return.

Benjamin Disraeli once said, “The legacy of heroes is the memory of a great name and the inheritance of a great example.” I’ve been fortunate to know so many heroes and to recognize how many more exist around me. They’re not only heroes in quiet deed and action, but also in motivation—they are people who have inspired me to do my best in hopes that perhaps, someday, my grandchildren might play in a barn with one idea of heroism, and then as they age, grow to realize – just as I did -- that true heroes aren’t immortal—but their examples, and memories, certainly are.