Walt sat to my left, sporting his fine, curly, white ponytail barely protruding from beneath an ever-sprawling expanse of baldness. His white Hawaiian shirt speckled with red flowers evinced his no-care f-you (edited out at my mother's intelligent behest) vacation attitude just as well as the light scent of fecal remnants that he emanated. I sighed in recognition of the already bad impression I made in boarding the plane and demanding he relinquish his seat in a fit of confusion and will-to-power-of the aisle seat. In the same way that I squeezed and nudged my way into the cramped plane seat, I was able to finagle my way into his heart. The Italian native was on his grumpy, weed-toting, and cantankerous way back to his country of origin to celebrate his nephew’s wedding. Walt mocked my touristic appearance and musings. As he whipped out his week-old iPad touch, he regaled like the bards of the past his great and epic history. He departed Italy with his brother under his father’s wing at age 7, but his sister remained behind to tend her family. His experiences were all too unkind, facing the rivalries and bullying of the masses at his inability to voice their tongue. I couldn’t help but reflect his sentiments. What could I, a lowly English, Hebrew, and Latin student do in five and a half short weeks to alleviate the social stigmas inevitably accompanying an alien in a foreign place? Walt, the grump that he was, gave me hope. I couldn’t even sense an accent after hours of discussion. This one, smelly, visually displeasing man proved to be my shining beacon of encouragement. This is for you Walt! I’ll take a whack at this messy thing called Italian with your story close to my heart. Thanks so much for sharing your muddled stories in between your woefully distasteful bourbon and diet coke and the Mama Mia-Dancing Queen sound tracks blaring from your iPad. Beneath his harsh and crunchy exterior resided a man who had felt the full ravages of American citizenship. He maintained his Italian heritage proudly into his late teens, when one day he was drafted for the war. Though he protested allegiances to the old stars and stripes, the general declared him a subject worthy to draft. After eighteen months of Agent Orange, watching friends die, and killing enemies who seemed undeserving at best, he returned a changed man. After decades of bouts with flash-backs, post traumatic stress disorder, and three divorces Walt is a man that most would have cringed to spend a nine hour trans-Atlantic flight with, but from that stinky pile of peat, I’ve gleaned a diamond in the rough! Where ever you are Walt, may your nephew’s wedding be blissful, may you enjoy your relatives’ home made wine, the fresh sprawling Italian Mountain-scape, and may the Lord be with you. (mayhaps in this blessing I too shall enjoy some of its products!) Amen.
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