On Memorial Day, I want to honor my great-uncle, Jesus Ybarra, my grandfather’s older brother. I also thank all those who fought for my freedom. We continue to enjoy the benefits of their sacrifices even today.

But I will share more about my grandfather because I loved him, and he loved his brother. When we truly love someone, their happiness lights up our dark world. For me, my grandfather was my light. I am not dismissing our soldiers. Their sacrifice is much deeper than the eyes can see. Our gratitude should always show humility and respect toward our soldiers. Their loss was significant, and it involves lost dreams, hopes, and memories. Some future husbands and wives have never met one another, or experienced the American dream. Children didn’t grow up; they were forced to fight in the war or labor in factories from dawn to dusk.

Some went to war wearing a string around their finger to symbolize hope. My grandfather’s string of hope, post-war, was in his storytelling and music. Some children like me never knew their fathers, but he was the father figure I needed at the time. I’ve learned that when someone we love has served, we must remember those who served on the home front. Their contributions were significant as well, like sons who do not have the advantage of knowing their fathers. Lovers torn apart by the act of service to a country that forgot about their sacrifices. Some were welcomed back with disdain and treated poorly after the war. The parks are filled with homeless veterans to this day, and still countless stories that need to be told. Today, I want to share the story of my grandfather, George C. Ybarra. My grandfather was a musician; his contribution to the war effort kept hope alive.

As a child, I saw the joys of my grandfather’s heart. The highlights of his life were in a deep well that had to be primed out of him. My grandfather, a musician born in Jerome, AZ, played his drums on the streets for money. He loved playing. I heard him play only once. I will never forget the joy in his eyes as he played the saxophone. His talent was unforgettable.

It was hot that day. I had just brought my grandfather a cup of hot coffee. I was told that I spoiled him. He was the only father figure I had at the time. I think I loved him because he had quiet strength. His words were few, but they were like living water flowing from his mouth when he shared his stories. On this particular day, he sat quietly on the porch watching my uncles wash their antique cars.

One had a 1955 Chevy, and the other had a convertible. I don’t remember the model. Neighbors were also outside; it was a beautiful morning. My uncles had the music playing on the KRIZ radio station. We lived in the neighborhood behind it on 27th Avenue and Buckeye Road. Music played a significant role in the post-war period. I was living with my grandparents; I remember my cousins serving in Vietnam. When they came on leave, I would hear the women’s shouts of joy. Others came home in caskets. I will never forget the screams of the mothers who had to bury their sons. It was a time of great sadness. People seemed to live on edge, wondering if their loved ones would make it home alive. It was a time when love and hate were real in the lives of this generation. Laughter was loud, and the dancing shoes sounded like the rumble of armies. Nothing was fake, not even silence.

They probably called it a melancholy time, a lost generation where hope was like a smoldering wick. Joy and happiness were like surprise visitors, or sons coming home from the war, bringing moments of joy. This day was one of those moments. The song “What Does It Take to Win Your Love” by Jr. Walker came on the radio. My grandfather jumped out of his chair and ran into the house, grabbing the case that contained his saxophone. He pulled it out. As always, just like shining his black fancy shoes, he also pulled out the inside cloth. Then he began playing the part of JR. He played, “Da, da, da, da!” Sorry JR. My grandfather stole the show that day. From that moment, the image of my grandfather’s smile was ingrained in my heart.

I stood in awe. I listened to my grandfather play with his whole heart. He came back to life, and my uncles also seemed stunned. They stopped washing their cars and turned to hear their dad play. I have to say, my grandfather rocked that neighborhood that day!

The LORD shares the joys of His heart with those who love Him (Psalm 25).

I lived in Prescott a couple of years ago. During that time, I went on a mission to learn about my grandfather’s heritage. I never met his parents, but I knew how much he loved his mother and family. His older brother, Jesus, served during World War II and was a patient at the Veterans Hospital in Prescott, AZ. These are a few of his pictures. Somehow, they remind me of an article I read recently called “The Lost Generation, by Sunny Jane Morton. (2020). For me, this story is based on memory. I didn’t know my biological father. He served in Vietnam. But I always imagined him standing by my side when I was afraid. In my mind, I would look up; if I saw that he wasn’t scared, then I wouldn’t worry. That’s how I saw my grandfather. Now that I know JESUS, I look up to Him. I don’t worry because He is God. He is my Father.

I remembered how my grandfather drove us to Prescott once a year to visit his brother. As a small child, the Veterans Hospital looked like the White House. I thought all Veterans lived in the White House. I believed they were the most honorable individuals, even as a child. My great-uncle was a tall, thin man with light skin. When I met him, he was older. I saw a handsome man with integrity behind his hazel, lonely eyes. He didn’t have many visitors. Visiting loved ones wasn’t as easy back then, as families struggled to survive.

They should have a place of remembrance in the White House. They fought for the liberties meant to flow outward to our nation under God. Still, there are people today who want to silence the stories of history. Some women in our family held positions of authority. They were controlling and manipulative. They mastered changing the narratives or silencing us. The storytelling ended abruptly. History should never be forgotten; whether good or bad, that’s how we learn and grow. I am grateful that my grandfather shared his stories with me. But I learned not to ask him questions around my grandmother; she seemed to hate to see him happy. He couldn’t openly share his stories about Jerome, and how he climbed up the hill barefoot so he wouldn’t dirty his shiny black shoes. He was also a player, not instrumental. Perhaps that’s why he couldn’t discuss those days in front of my grandmother. He also couldn’t even talk fondly about his mother and sisters, whom he loved. I know this because I asked him about childhood when my grandmother wasn’t around. I remember how his eyes would light up. It was as though a switch in the deepest part of his heart lit up. I listened to the same stories over and over again. It was as if he were dead but came to life again. His stories made him happy, and that was my goal: to see him smile. Many family members served, and I apologize if I forgot any, but know that I am grateful for your service, and you are remembered:

Jesus Ybarra, Army WWII,

Ernie Valenzuela, Army, WWII

Armando Mercado, Korean War (Pork Chop Hill).

Joe Delgado Sr, Army, Germany WWII,

Joe Henry Valenzuela, 2 or 3 tours in Vietnam, Post war- Recruiter.

Joe Peralta, Army, Vietnam,

Johnny Betancourt, Navy, Vietnam,

Winston B. McConnie, Army, Vietnam

Ramon G.G., Marine, Army Ranger, fought in Iran, Iraq, Afghanistan

Our mistakes do not define us. War brings out parts of us we want to forget. I am not ashamed. I am proud of my ancestors who fought for our country. They did their best afterward with the little support they received, but deserved much honor and respect. Thank you!