On Not-So-Foreign Shores

We will now take a break from the continually anticipated Catholic message to provide a more patriotic one.

I woke up the earliest I had since I've been here to board a bus and travel 4 hours outside of Paris to the beach.

Omaha Beach.

When I say "the beach" I mean "The Beach." The beaches of Normandy, Omaha Beach, the site of American victory and tragedy.

By nightfall, June 6, 1944, Allied troops gained the necessary access to France to initiate "the greatest amphibious assault recorded in history."

I need no imagination or creativity whatsoever to describe how symbolic and uplifting this day was. We had been seeing rain in Paris for a week straight, and expected nothing less when traveling outside of the city limits. We were pleasantly surprised with sunny skies and comfortable weather. We dismounted the hill onto the beach with the sun still welcoming us. The waves were like those you hear in the movies when they're trying to create a sense of calmness; I never heard something so peaceful.

As soon as I stomped my trendy combat boots onto the sand, the soft waves turned into crashes on the shore line. The sun hid behind clouds as I stood where thousands of Americans took a step toward the enemy.

The path leading to the memorial.

After spending a few minutes on the beach, we began our climb back up the hill accompanied by a light drizzle that turned into a downpour. When we looked up, we could see the single cloud responsible. After a last look at the wet sand below, we walked towards the real attraction.

The cemetery. It's almost an insult to address it so casually and darkly. When people envision cemeteries, they envision tall angels and stone black headstones with elaborate carvings. At Normandy, you see rows that seem to extend for miles of white crosses and sporadic Stars of David. Whichever corner of the land you stand, they are in systematic rows.

As soon as I stood before the resting place of millions of men, the rain stopped. Like some sort of miracle, like they were so happy to have Americans come and visit them even though they are so far from what we all call home.

I walked off by myself. I can't even say I have a relative in there. I can't even say I've heard first hand accounts of this moment in history. I just knew I was standing among it. It was tragic and it was so beautiful. The crosses were so graceful and pleasant. I read through as many names as I possibly could by walking by. If I read one row and not the row behind it, I felt almost guilty.

Named and numbered. Each lost is counted.

I cried. I actually cried. The last time I cried was saying goodbye to my life at home, knowing full well that I would return to it. I think that was the problem. All of the people who had these ivory crosses assigned to them never made it home. When they said goodbye to their mothers, to their sisters, to their girlfriends, they had at least an inkling that there would be no jubilant reunion. The idea of being any of those men, within years of my current age when they met death, is so humbling. If they were lucky enough to have their last letter sent home, that was their last chance to send their love; the last of their love was devoted to the country.

Being in France really has given me a sense of my own identity. For all of us at home, someone asks what we are and we provide a list of places in which we've never been to, taking on an identity we hadn't assumed.

to the Republic, for which it stands

"Oh, I'm Italian." "Oh, I'm Puerto Rican."


It's true, the "of [insert nationality] decent" is implied by saying this. We have assumed the identities of mixed blood.

But being in Paris and seeing French flags on the flag poles creates some kind of transition into saying "I'm American," with pride and knowing it's true.

Seeing the stars and stripes at the cemetery today felt so much different than any other time I've pledged to it. I was so proud to know that everything my country was built on was on display on foreign soil, humbly, for everyone to know. That "everyone" includes me, who took it for such granted when I was home.

I think I can safely say this was my favorite historical site to have ever visited. It isn't too elaborate or flashy or crowded. It gives off the exact message it is intended to and is a symbol of everything from friendship and peace to grief and loss. It is nonetheless triumphant. It is the entire embodiment of devoted Americans and everything for which we stand.