• There I stood, in a line with the rest of my family. My mother was the farthest to the right, the closest to the many carnations adorning the object that called me to this destination. My back was rigid, the straightest it had ever been. It was so straight, in fact, that it hurt to hold the position I was in. A cold sweat formed on my brow as associates of my family- friends, distant relatives, and various other acquaintances most of which I had never met- paced across the floor. Each of them stopped before the exalted object, kneeled, muttered an incoherent prayer, and then proceeded towards me and my immediate relatives. Every time the visitors faced me, I grew both anxious and distraught. Yet, I did not let my posture be affected in even the slightest way by the emotions I held within myself. Throughout the whole procession, the muscles in my face only repositioned as I spoke, never for a frown or another form of emotional expression. Despite the high emotional content of the situation, and the open emotional expressiveness of the people around me, I showed no sign of distress. Not one.

    At the time, just a few weeks after my twelfth birthday, I did not know just how much this event would affect me. Of course, at first, I thought it was the end of the world, for I had lost not only my father, but my best friend. While I was that young, I truly did not realize what affect this would have on my future. Heck, I didn't even know what I would be able to do with my future then. But as I progressed through my middle-school years, I began to realize what I would be missing. Five years from the time of his death, I would be walking along a stage, adorned in a cap and gown with my tassel flowing behind me. I would look up into the audience as I received my diploma, to see my mother, my siblings, and an empty chair beside them. Several years after that, I would be adorned in an even more elegant gown, white and flowing. As is tradition, I would proceed down the aisle of the church, but I would be making the journey alone. When I was only twelve, I did not realize I would miss such things later on in my life. But now, the very tragedy of the situation has finally reached me. When I did have this revelation, the torn emotions of the day of my father's death surfaced. But I did not break down as I would have wanted to if I were weaker. I pushed the negative thoughts away with all of the willpower I possessed, and simply moved on. I am strong enough to overcome any obstacle.

    I have been known by my friends, relatives, and peers to never openly express my emotions. When my friends tell me stories of how difficult their lives are, or of how much internal turmoil they are going through, I do feel on the inside, just not on the outside. It is not because I am apathetic or ignorant of other people's feelings, it is that I am strong. I am strong enough to not let those who oppose me see any form of weakness within me. I am strong enough to look a problem straight in the eye and stand my ground, without turning back or buckling down. I am strong enough to endure the uncertainties of my future. I am strong enough to stand in a line at my father's funeral, facing friends of his who are down on their knees before his coffin sobbing, and not shed a single tear. I am strong enough.

    I am, as many people say the strong and silent type. I do not complain about this label. In fact, I embrace it. I am proud that, when a situation gets stressful and turbulent, I am able to keep myself emotionally stable. I am sure that my father would be proud of me as well. After all, big girls don't cry.