Proud to be an American

We had walked absolutely everywhere and seen absolutely everything. It
was the last day of my dadâ¬"s makeshift tour of Washington DC, and the
buildingsâ¬lavish granite with columns and inscriptions and monuments and
plaquesâ¬were beginning to blend together. We were tired, and my dad allotted
ten minutes to take a break beside a fountain off the side of the street.

The soft voices coming from the restaurant a hundred feet away slurred
together with the tentative rushing of the clear water. It was a hot day and
we were exhaustedâ¬my mother, sister and I delighted in putting our feet in
the water while my dad plotted with the map. My sister had her eyes closed,
trying to black out the beating sun. My mother was stroking my hair
absent-mindedly as she told me how she hated hot weather, too.

It wasnâ¬"t the beauty of the buildings or the city that made me proud to be born
into my American family or proud to be an Americanâ¬it was the simple,
innocent, unrecognized beauty of my family.