My Grandpa Mike never complained, even though he could have if he wanted to. First, a catastrophic medical misdiagnosis that left his youngest son permanently disabled, and then a stint at Camp Lejeune, a U.S. army base that supplied its troops with contaminated water—which gave him the cancer that killed him last year. It was enough to make anyone angry at the world, but he never was.
Quite the contrary, he saw the silver lining in anything. He was so good-natured that we made a game of it—I’d sit in the backseat and describe elaborate horror situations, and he’d find a way to make them positive. Life hadn’t stripped him of his humor; he joked until his body was failing, and even then he’d make wisecracks about his chemo.
I was wowed by his optimism, but it was his patriotism that most impressed me. His family immigrated from Poland, and he was proud to be an American—and grateful for the opportunities this country gave him, even though life was often hard.
Recently, I was browsing a vintage store and found a sweatshirt emblazoned with navy letters: “CAMP LEJEUNE.” My impulse was to go on a tirade, but I knew what my Grandpa would do. He would motion to his bandages, crack a joke, then treat it as a chance to teach someone about the country he loved.
So, I grabbed the shirt, and I followed in his footsteps.
Ani Wilcenski is Deputy Literary Editor of Tablet Magazine. @aniwilc
