Trauma
Have any of you ever had that
moment, where you feel happy and calm and everything seems to be just fine? Boy,
you never want to trade that moment for anything else in the world.
I remember a time when everything
seemed so right for the world or at least for a nine-year-old boy living in
Southern California. It was on December 5th, 1941. I had just received
a letter from my Dad, Bernie telling me he was going to be home before
Christmas. He was a sailor onboard the Arizona. I still have that letter, but
it has been folded and unfolded so many times it is starting to tear.
It was on a Sunday afternoon, my Mom
and I had just left church in Canoga Park and had gone out to lunch with
several friends to Du-Pars where I had my favorite, a Monte Cristo sandwich. All the adults were talking about my Dad
coming home. My mom looked so happy. The radio was playing Benny Goodman, but I
could barely hear it over the sound of the adults talking. But all of that was about
to change. Suddenly, a news reporter
broke into the music and announced that Pearl Harbor was under attack.
I looked at my mom to see if she
heard it too. Her mouth was open, like
she was going to say something, but no words came out. A couple of young girls sitting in the both
next to us started to cry. A waitress
dropped a tray of food.
We waited for two whole weeks, for
Dad of the navy to send a letter to us, but no response came. My mom stopped eating, she just smoked and
drank cup after cup of coffee. I acted
like noting was happening. I went to
school every day, ate my lunch with my pal Greg, and prayed that Dad would come
home.
One day, I was walking home and I
saw that all the lights in the house were on.
I heard voices. I heard my mom
crying. She was holding a telegram. A few weeks later, one of Dad’s friends, a survivor
from the Oklahoma, came to our house. When he left, he put my Dad’s dog
tags in my hand. It was at this point that I knew Dad was never coming home.
From that day on, I never went to
church again. I stopped believing in
God.
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