Forget Me Not :: Free Essays Online

Forget Me Not Freedom is not free. These powerful words resound in my mind 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 either overwhelmed by emotion or completely drained of it; I cannot tell which. Staring into the smoky colored granite I see one 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 swear I can see the faces of one thousand forgotten children looking deep into my eyes. These â€Å"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, â€Å"No, this was our forgotten war. We are the truly forgotten!† However, I disagree. These soldiers, now veterans, have earn ed this monument and have had their voices and stories heard. Yet, these â€Å"children of the war,† both Korean and Ameriasian, who grew up in Korea’s post war era of the 50’s and 60’s 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 â€Å"children of the war† one must first listen 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 knife and finds it oddly misplaced in a case 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 naturally grasps the handle like she has countless times before. The knife naturally molds to her hand, like an extension of her body. Slowly beginning to chop, she finds comfort in the knife, along with a sense of reassurance and humility that she has carried all of her life. Watching my mother’s careful movements, I hesitate for a moment before bombing her with questions.