My Cardboard Balcony

Bland Expectations by Belinda Roddie My father wanted me to be a doctor, just like his father, who secretly wished he could be an astronaut, just like his brother, who had a hankering to try out the culinary arts, just like his cousin, who while stirring sauce dreamed of stirring up the hearts of dames as a jazz singer instead, just like his mother, who had married a man but had fallen in love with a woman, just like her best friend, who heavily considered becoming a nun, just like her teacher, who prayed to God for a boat to sail in, just like her father, who got up every morning, sucked in the sea spray through one nostril, and thought, "You know, maybe I ought to have been a doctor."

After the students' raucous and juvenile yelling died down, the lecturer walked up to the podium, noticeably limping and rubbing her rigid right arm. Everyone in the hall knew that she was a war veteran, yet somehow, only a select handful of the youth there seemed to care. One girl snapped bubble gum and rolled her eyes, whispering to her friend that the injured soldier had only perpetuated a useless, evil war. And then the veteran spoke. "I lost use of my arm while saving an Iraqi child from a suicide bomber."