When I think of America, the flag isn’t the representation that comes to mind. America is the camouflaged back of my dad disappearing through the airport gate. “Daddy, please don’t go!” I cried, clinging to his leg. “I’ll be back soon. Don’t worry boo,” he whispered softly, trying desperately to hold back his tears. My mom stood to the side hugging my siblings as my brother stared into space and tears trickled down my sister’s freckled cheeks. They were old enough to understand the reality that “Daddy” might never come back. And just like that my father was gone, swallowed by the oblivion of the sky.

   My family moved mechanically into the car and everything just felt empty. My father’s spot in “shotgun” just a dent in the leather. As we pulled into our gravel driveway and opened the front door of our two-story farmhouse, our once cozy home now felt a dark chasm. It wasn’t a home without my father’s deep chuckles ringing through the air. At night it was much worse, with only the ringing crickets to break up our despondent thoughts and no father to tuck me in. My mom read me a book, turned off the lights, went to her room, and locked the door. A mechanical click ringing through our hollow house. A testament of her will to keep a brave face in front of us. 

   I still got to see my father in a way, but only through the blurry LED lights of our MacBook computer. I would giggle as I told my father about my days at kindergarten. “Look Dad, they mention Bahrain in this Jack and Annie book! They have dates! Do you eat dates?! You should bring me some dates!” A smile would always stretch across my father’s face, crinkles forming where his newly formed wrinkles began. In between intermittent static and connection loss, my father would choke out, “I love you boo, and I wish I was home.”  I would smile and chirp back another, “I love you too Dad”. With that, we would snap the laptop case shut, a silent sentence: another week without Daddy’s voice. I felt so alone, we felt so alone, but we weren’t.

   My small, predominately military town rallied behind my family. Countless individuals went out of their way to help lift the burden of Dad’s absence. The Shireys spent 20 hours fixing our water systems. Joe fixed the lawnmower. Marlene and Randy helped with the garden and sometimes brought fresh-baked cookies. Dick helped my mom plant and manage beautiful pink peonies that he had dug from his own yard. Even my school counselor, Jannett, chipped in, making sure to pull me aside during the school day to check on me. Our small little town of Bellevue was centered around that military base and when the holidays came, grandiose parties were thrown to make people with deployed family members feel at home. Tables were littered with food, movies played, and magicians performed, but the greatest trick was distracting kids like myself from our fathers’ absence. At every gathering, conversation, or interaction with my community, I heard the same phrase repeated a multitude of times. “You should be real proud of your dad, he’s doing something really great for this country.” And I was proud, truly proud of my dad because I began to understand why I couldn’t see him every day. He was protecting this. My family, the people in my community, and the millions of faces he didn’t know but somehow felt connected to. He was protecting unity. Every one of my neighbors, teachers, and administrators that had helped my family contributed to this unity. They were loving the people in their community just as patriotism is loving a country, and really a country is just a prodigious community. I loved the people in this country at five and I still love them at 16. It dawned on me, that this selfless sense of unity is what makes America so special and I knew I had to be a part of it. This community is what I hope and strive to be a part of, whether it’s being in the military, or just bringing a batch of fresh-baked cookies to the family of a deployed spouse. Unity. Love. Community. Fresh-baked cookies. That’s America to me.