Reflections

Last week I turned eighteen, and suddenly I am an adult.  I am eighteen - I can vote, I can drive without restrictions, I can work more than forty hours a week, and I am expected to ease into the adult world.  However, I am young.  I still go to school - the same school I attended when I was fourteen and sixteen.  I worry about homework, grades, obeying the teachers, friends, prom, and my future.  When you just turn eighteen, the future seems as infinite as the number of starts that fill the clear night sky.  The world is still a mysterious place, waiting to be discovered.

A week prior to my birthday, I visited the Vietnam Memorial in Holmdel, New Jersey.  At the memorial, a certain birth date engraved into the black stone captured my attention - my birth date, March 31st.  A chill went through my body like lightning and struck the heart of my soul.  Linwood E. Hyman was born on March 31, 1951 and died November 27, 1969.  He died at age eighteen.  Floyd H. Goff was also born March 31, 1950 and died February 25, 1971.  He died at age twenty-one.  These veterans were not the exception, but the norm.  Teenagers, people just like me, died in Vietnam as their infinite futures disappeared in mere seconds.  These people were once seventeen, attending high school, worrying about homework, grades, teachers, friends, and prom.  Like me, they had their eighteenth birthday and entered the adult world with the innocence of youth still fresh in their veins.

My revelation had little to do with the merits of the Vietnam War, but instead with the innocence of youth that I take for granted.  Standing in the memorial with the sun warming my body, I heard the familiar sounds of the cars on the Parkway and the birds on the trees.  I felt safe, secure, and comfortable.  The veterans, however, did not have these familiar sounds to appease their fears.  Thousands of soldiers died in a state of in security, fear, and perpetual anxiety.  The war interrupted the lives of these teenagers, forcing them to grow up.  Suddenly, amazement occupied my thoughts.  These teenagers learned how to fire guns, ambush the enemy, walk miles with heavy backpacks, and live with constant fear and unrest.  They adapted to extraordinary conditions.  America relied upon its youth for defense and the ability to create a more secure future.  I looked once more into the black stone of the memorial and saw my reflection.  I am also a teenager that carries America‘s future.

Every summer, my family migrates from the mountains of North Jersey to the warm, sandy beaches of the shore.  I gaze out the window during this two-hour ride and examine my surroundings.  My eye always catches the “tree” next to the PNC Bank Arts Center, but I don‘t know its purpose.  I think it must be a special tree because it stands alone in the middle of a circular structure.  My visit to the memorial finally answered this mystery.  The red oak tree is the New Jersey State tree and it symbolizes “home” for the veterans.  The tree is security.  The memorial left me with not only more knowledge, but also a sense of purpose.  On the ride home, I gazed out the window at the setting sun.  The horizon was vast, and I was humbled.